Commission
by SpikeIsHotter
Summary: *On Hiatus, see profile* Edward is a solitary vampire who is tired of hunting humans, but needs human blood. After Bella's sister Alice is murdered, she can't find peace while the killers walk free. She needs a hitman, and he needs someone to kill for.
1. Chapter 1

*****

A/N: Hi everyone. This is my first Twilight fan fic, so bear with me. I've taken some liberties with the Twilight 'verse, particularly with Edward's history and vampire physiology in general, so the first two chapters are very introductory by necessity. At chapter 3, the plot really starts (enter Bella!), so I'm appealing to your patience :). Reviews (good or bad) are **greatly** appreciated.

Some recent news:

Chapters 1 and 2 ( and the very beginning of 3) have now been entirely re-written. To those of you who have read the original beginning, I would love to hear your thoughts on this new prologue.

**Also, we've been nominated for 2 Indies!! **

If you want to absolutely, totally make my day, please consider** voting for this story on the Indie TwiFic Awards**. It has been nominated in two categories: Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP. The URL is here : /

**Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)**

Thanks!

Disclaimer: No no, nothing is mine, belongs to SM. Don't sue, it won't be worth the fees.

*****

April 1996

The sun sets. He rises, throws back the thick black curtains, and stares out at the Chicago skyline. The view is beautiful. Tall blazing buildings pierce the night sky; the streets form a perfect checkerboard of glowing lines as far north, south and west as the eye can see. To the east, they are engulfed in a sudden darkness. A giant lake confines this city, reminding it of a power that civilization can never master.

He stands there, motionless, fingertips pressed against glass. Once, this view meant nothing - just a scattering of shiny and superfluous lights. Now, he stares, allows himself to become hypnotized by the stream of cars far below. They trail along one by one like wingless fireflies.

He will move soon; he has lived in this apartment for nearly three years, and some of the neighbors are becoming suspicious. They might not know it yet, but he does. Extra breadth in the elevator, long looks that flicker away as soon as they are noticed. Moving will be inconvenient; he would rather stay. But something itches deep inside, compels him to move on. He will miss this view, he realizes with a start.

He sighs audibly, not recognizing the longing in his tone. He only knows that something is wrong. He moves, a flicker in the darkness, and he is in the next room, a small notebook in hand. Sinking into a deep leather recliner, he stares at a blank page for nearly an hour. Then, slowly, cautiously, he picks up a pen and begins to write.

_This is an experiment. I have never kept a journal, not that I can recall, and I am skeptical about the exercise. But I am also weary. The thoughts which have been clogging my mind are only multiplying with time. Perhaps this will give me some repose, or at least some understanding of what is happening to me._

_There was once a time when I thought about nothing. A long period of time. It is hard to imagine it now, to imagine myself as only semi-sentient. Yet... I miss it. Is this insanity? Perhaps I am going mad. Perhaps I already am. _

_My mind churns with questions, but there are no answers. This is entirely different from those first months when I awoke and knew nothing of what I had become. I was ignorant, yes, but I was never confused. The questions of who I was and how I would sustain myself were irrelevant – without any precedent, I simply knew what to do. How to protect myself, how to sustain my body. At the time, I examined nothing, I simply acted. Avoid certain behaviors in public, stay out of the sun, arteries rather than veins. I now marvel at the certainty with which I acted. _

_What is this life? How long will it last? What am I meant to do with it? There wasn't any trigger for these questions; they just appeared. Now, they are a ceaseless torment. Reason does not comfort me. What comfort can one take from the conclusion that existence is pointless? _

_I remember virtually nothing of my human life__. Is this some vestigial torment that I have yet to outgrow? Or is it instead a problem unique to my present state? After all, though my instincts demand sustenance and survival, they suggest no other way to pass the time. Hunger is unpleasant, overwhelming. Feeding is... intoxicating, blissful, even. Self-preservation is similarly compelling, but what else? The list is pathetically short. Is there nothing else I ought to do, to want? It is not enough to hunt and eat and cower from the sun... but what else is there? _

_Sometimes I think I would slam my head into a wall if the impact could do it any good. _

***

In the dead of night, he wanders through deserted streets. An illuminated storefront catches his eye and he pauses. It is a bookstore, a small shop specializing in spirituality and religion. His eyes drift over the titles, both fiction and non-fiction, and he can't discern the difference. He has never understood the purpose of any of these objects, nor the people who use them. Now, for the first time, he questions whether this might be a symptom of his own inadequacy, rather than theirs. Exhaling sharply, he turns away.

_I can't stand to look at them any longer. They consume, they excrete, they copulate, they die. And all the while, they mill about. Doing what? Nothing! Their lives are as pointless as mine, yet they don't seem to know it. They just carry on, smiling and laughing. Is this an entire race of imbeciles? _

_Life has no meaning, no purpose. So why do they _smile_??_

***

He hunts. On the south side of the city, in a questionable neighborhood, he has found prey in a small lakeside park. A man is asleep on a bench, head resting on a large duffel bag.

He approaches silently, cautiously, sniffing for any trace of alcohol or drugs - his body reacts poorly to such pollutants. This creature seems clean. It barely wakens as he compresses the carotid artery to cut off the brain's oxygen supply, then lets it go. He can _hear_ the tissue become reperfused as blood surges through the vessel again, and licks his lips. The thing in front of him is not dead – he has learned that death ruins blood faster than he could consume it – but he has rendered it unconscious. This he does for convenience; a still body is much easier to drain. Neither empathy nor pity ever enters his thoughts.

He sniffs again. The body is unwashed, dirty. The hair smells particularly foul, and he wrinkles his nose at the idea of biting the neck. Instead, he grabs an arm, lifts it to his mouth and inhales. Much better. His small but sharp canines pierce the skin of the inner wrist, and he drinks.

Suddenly, his vision blurs, and he is dizzy. He pulls back, looks down. His own wrist is bleeding, and somehow, he knows that the injury is self-inflicted. Blood flows freely, but he has no desire to drink it. Instead, he watches mournfully as it drips onto something... a favorite album or book, he isn't sure. There is pain, but it is not physical. Something inside aches and gnaws, and he feels a bizarre urge to cry. Though he could barely name such feelings five minutes ago, he is now conscious of an emotional deluge: bitterness, loneliness, despair, and even self-loathing. These things he feels more intensely than he has ever felt anything. He staggers under the weight of them, stumbles, plops clumsily onto the ground.

He is back in the park. His body is unharmed. On the bench in front of him, a man lies bleeding. He stares dumbly, his mind still overflowing with the most visceral elements of the vision. The man stirs, groans, and the vampire shakes his head, blinking. It can't be left like this, he must drink. He grabs the bleeding arm again, catches the next red drop before it hits the ground. The taste comforts him, and each swallow is deep and urgent. Finished, he empties the man's duffel bag, fills it with some rocks that liter the shore, and ties it around a limp ankle. The body sinks quickly into the murky waters of the lake, and he heads home, deep in thought.

As the sun rises and bisects the sky, he retreats to a small windowless bedroom. His body's extreme sensitivity to sunlight confines him to this room, makes him weak and lethargic. Most days pass slowly. In the past, he had rarely struggled to keep his mind occupied, but lately, ennui has been making him want to climb the walls.

Now, he reaches for his journal.

_I can still feel it, smothering me like some thick fog. I don't understand. _

_I want to understand._

***

_I have been reading. Some philosophy, some literature - it is all suddenly fascinating. It seems that I was right – nothing matters. Not this current life, not my past one – none of it has a drop of relevance to anyone but myself. It is all relative. When I had a family, I cared about their lives because they affected mine. When I felt suicidal, it was because I had lost the things that seemed important, made life feel enjoyable and worthwhile. This ennui, this existential torment – it will not be cured by some external intervention. Happiness is a construct. Satisfaction is derived from within. _

_**********_

End Notes: Thanks for reading guys, hope you like this thoughtful and angsty Edward.

Now, if you want to absolutely, totally make my day, please consider** voting for this story on the Indie TwiFic Award**s. It has been nominated in two categories: Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP. The URL is here : /

**Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)**


	2. Chapter 2

*****

A/N: Still here? Awesome! If you like what you see, review! Also, come check out my cool banner over at :)

**We've been nominated! ** Commission has been nominated for "Favorite Darkward" at the Bellie Awards (.), and "Best Alternate Universe, WIP" category at the Indie TwiFic Awards ().

With each award, Commission will only get on the ballot if it's one of the top 4 or 5 to be nominated in that category. So, if you like what you've read,** please take a minute to nominate **the story for either or both awards. (Or some other award, if you're so inclined :) )

Disclaimer: SM owns all things Twilight. I own this plot.

*****

The midnight air is cold, sharp. It smells of dying leaves and nascent snow. The campus is deserted; most students have left for the Thanksgiving holiday, and the few who remain have found warmer, brighter places to be for the night.

The architecture here is eclectic. One quad is bound by old brick and ivy, another by gray concrete slabs and odd angles. The music library resembles an old cathedral, while the student center, built in the 1970s, is more like a post-modern military bunker. Student opinion is sharply divided. Some are pleased that their university is not defined by obsolete tradition, and willing to build "outside the box." Others wish this place would look more like the Ivy League university that it aspires to be.

He weaves through the grounds for hours, wandering slowly, pausing at each building for a thorough examination. The campus has expanded considerably in the last half-century, and most of it seems entirely alien. A few sections, however, are familiar. One dormitory in particular calls out to him. The doors and windows are different - they have had several upgrades over the decades - but the structure is essentially the same. He knows this place. He used to live here.

He walks the perimeter of the building once, twice, trying to provoke recollection. Studying each window, he wonders which was his; his fingers glide over the door handle and test its weight as he tries to imagine pulling it open. Such exercises have helped jog his memory recently, but not today. He can't seem to remember anything; eventually, he turns away, lights a cigarette, and begins the long walk home.

He could hunt. In fact, he probably ought to, but for some reason, hunting has recently lost its luster. He would much rather relive the past than carry out the tedium of the present. True, life has been a bit more stimulating lately – books and films have added a new dimension to his world, but it is little more than window-shopping. In his flashbacks, he doesn't just look, he gets to touch and feel and taste. There, life is rich and complex. Memories bring new sensations, make him think new thoughts. They leave little pieces behind, too, giving him something to reflect on during the long, windowless days. It is a welcome change from his earlier musings, and he revels in the distraction each memory provides.

Passing through Evanston, he enters Roger's Park. While the south side of Chicago is its unequivocal crime center, this area keeps plenty of police officers' wives up at night, too. He turns east on Howard Street to walk along the lake, passing under the El tracks. Several homeless men lie sleeping in front of an empty attendant's booth, a few of them cocooned in gray, dirty blankets. He spares no more than a passing glace. Once, he lived among these people, fed on them, desperate for blood and ignorant of how to better himself. His recollections of that time are faint and fading, as tenuous as the memories of childhood. Now, the thought of their filthy, diseased bodies turns his stomach, and the disgust is tempered only by contempt.

Suddenly, his reflections are interrupted. Several blocks ahead, people are arguing - two men and a woman, their voices increasing in volume and aggravation as he approaches. Were the commotion not directly in his path, he wouldn't have batted an eye, but drawing nearer, his curiosity stirs. Now he can discern their words; something about drugs and broken promises and money. It figures. People are always arguing about money.

The conflict escalates. The woman is berating one of the men, and he swears at her in return. She fires back, but is silenced by a dull smack. More shouting, just the men this time. He pauses, steps back and waits for the fight to play itself out. Several punches are thrown, then two men spill out onto the sidewalk in front of him.

One holds up a knife. "Had enough, motherfucker?"

The other dabs at his bleeding lip and takes a step back.

"Yeah, that's right. Run on home now, you little bitch."

"Fuck you," the bleeding man spits out. "We had a deal, and I want my money."

Neither of them seems to have noticed him yet, so he stands perfectly still against the trunk of a tree, watching.

"Fuck me? Fuck you! You sold me shit, and I ain't paying for it. So get the fuck off my street, and take your bitch with you."

Grimacing, the second man throws a look over his shoulder and takes another step back. The other straightens slightly, shifts the knife in his hand. In the next instant, it falls to the ground with a muted clatter as the echo of gunfire reverberates against the surrounding buildings. He stumbles and sinks to the ground, clutching his shoulder as blood begins to ooze through his fingers.

The vampire jerks back, unintentionally revealing himself. The gun was discharged less than fifteen feet away, and the sound is deafening to his supersensitive hearing. He staggers, eyes squeezed shut, palms nearly crushing the cartilage of his ears against his skull. Then the gun fires again, and now the pain in his head is joined by a burning sensation against his hand. Something clinks onto the cement as he looks up.

His attacker is frozen in place, eyes darting from the crushed bullet on the ground to his target's unmarred hand. This man is scared – he has just mortally wounded a rival gang member, and now there is a witness. A witness whose skin deflects bullets.

The vampire swallows and glances down at his hand, where a thick red welt is forming between the knuckles of his middle and ring finger. He flexes it to test for broken bones and pain shoots up his forearm. His gaze jerks back to the human, and he snarls. The would-be shooter gasps, nearly choking with panic, gun trembling in his outstretched arm. But he won't take another breath, let alone fire another round, before his neck is snapped in the other's cold, steel grip.

Panting, the vampire whirls. Rage and adrenaline have taken over, and now the smell of blood assails him, fueling the frenzy. The metallic odor has saturated the air, and it burns the back of his throat like hellfire. His fists clench and unclench, and he lunges to its source.

The man who was shot is not yet dead, but it is only a matter of minutes. Nearly half of his blood has already been spilled, spreading along the cement and soaking into its pores, but half still remains. The vampire's lips close hungrily over the wound, sucking the thick fluid into his mouth through tattered skin and clothes. Although he wasn't hungry just minutes ago, the taste has possessed him. When the body is drained, he leaps to his feet, gasping for more.

A voice sounds faintly from around the corner, and he turns. The woman. She had been knocked unconscious, but is now coming to, trying to push herself up off the ground. Vessels pulse throughout her body, and he imagines the heart beating behind the ribcage, sees the blood pouring from the ventricle into the aorta with each contraction. She is barely on her feet before he pounces, and the breath goes out of her lungs as they land on the cold cement. His own breath has quickened to a gasp and he grunts, jerking her head back to expose the carotid artery. Razor - sharp canines pierce the skin, and she cries out, but the sound falls on deaf ears. As the salty-sweet liquid coats his tongue, he hears nothing. It envelops him, drowning out the world as it courses down his throat. He shudders, intoxicated.

Gradually, the urgency abates, and he begins to savor each swallow, drawing it out rather than gulping. Briefly, he pauses to breathe and reclaim his senses. The scent of blood now mingles with others – burnt gunpowder from the fired bullets, motor oil on the ground, the faint rot of garbage in a nearby trashcan. There is also sweat and urine and fear. These are the woman's, and he notices that she is still alive, still struggling under him. His cheek rests against her jaw, and it moves as she mumbles something. He pulls away then, spontaneously, for a reason that he won't try to understand until later.

"No," she whispers, "Please..."

Something shifts in him then, something deep in his gut, and he draws back to look at her face. Her nose is swollen and smeared with blood. Her eyes, with rich brown irises, are half closed and bloodshot. Short brown hair forms a jagged halo around her face, and her thin lips part as she gasps softly with each breath. He stares and doesn't know what to think or feel.

She seems to realize that he is no longer at her throat, and begins to drag herself away. She is weak now and moves slowly. As she pulls her head around, blood courses from the wound at her neck and onto the ground. He watches each drop splatter with a thud and, unable to permit the waste, lurches forward for what is rightfully his. This time, he won't pull back until it is gone.

***

The night had not turned out as he expected, and neither has the day. In the bedroom, books sit untouched, the newly acquired television and stereo are silent. He is huddled in the corner with his journal, scribbling madly, as if possessed. On the way home, he has had another flashback, and this one, along with everything else that has happened on this night, just won't let him go.

He had been rushing home, nearly flying, but the growing distance between him and the dead girl did nothing to get her out of his head. Her body swam before his eyes; he saw her lips move as she dragged air in and out of her lungs, saw her face turn towards him, heard her whispered plea. He ran faster, but the images kept coming, cycling past like a broken record. She was alive, she was bleeding, she was dead. He was famished, he was frenzied, he was sated.

Then, suddenly, he stopped short in the middle of the street. Except that he wasn't in the street anymore. He was somewhere else, somewhere he didn't recognize. A white empty room with an empty bed, surrounded by machines whose limp and useless wires dangled to the floor. It smelled of disinfectant and disease. He stared dumbly at the bed as something gnawed at him, a sickening emptiness that grew and grew until his hands shook and his stomach seized. He was alone there, so desperately alone. He didn't remember who had died or how, but he knew that death had brought him here. The thought of it was overwhelming and he felt nauseous. What had happened here? Who had died, and why was he so gut-wrenchingly miserable? No answers came as nausea overwhelmed him, and he threw up.

The smell of vomit dragged him back to the present. He was on his hands and knees in front of a sour and bloody mess, and he reeled back, gagging. Something else assaulted him then, and he looked up to see the unmistakable glow of sunrise in the sky. Scrambling to his feet, he took off for his apartment in a lumbering run, barely managing to drag himself into the bedroom room before collapsing.

Now, through a blistering sun-induced headache, he writes like his eternal life depends on it. Or, at the very least, his eternal sanity.

_I have feared death. I have clung to and defended my life against it, for life is the most precious thing I own. But the death of someone else, someone who matters... is this true suffering? What I saw and what I felt in that little white room – it is far worse than any misery I have imagined, but precisely because I had _not_ died. Were I to be struck down tomorrow, I would hardly know it. And were I to become ill, or through some other external intervention be made to suffer, then death would, perhaps, be a relief. _

_But if it is not my life that ends, but someone else's, and I am left behind? That is surely worse. That sort of death begins, not ends, the torment. Without permission, or concern, it gutted me. It shook me, spit me out into a mockery of my old life. I was abandoned, ignorant and helpless, and had no choice but to live without the only thing I cared about. _

_It's like that blasted song..._

_That woman... did she love someone? Did someone love her? A child, a parent, a sibling? What is their life like now, now that she is dead, now that..._

_Now that I have killed her._

_If it is true that the value of life is relative, then the loss of hers is not merely my gain. Against my satisfaction, I must weigh the suffering of all others who might care, who are still waiting for her to come home. And while the taste of her blood is already fading from my lips, their grief will last for decades._

_She begged me not to do it. She wanted to live, and I... am sorry. _

He stares at the words in front of him, reads them over and over, first silently and then out loud. On the last sentence, his voice breaks, and he hurls the notebook away.

He wants to go out. He needs to _leave, _to stare at something other than his own bloody hands. But the day is a prison; it fetters the vampire to his budding conscience, forcing him into penance.

He rebels. One by one, books from the tall stack on the floor are pitched into the opposite wall. Each one leaves a dent in the drywall. Spines burst and pages explode into the air, until the words of dead men blanket the floor like freshly fallen snow.

The sleek and glamorous electronics are next, but he is not satisfied to merely shatter the casing. Each piece that flies back at him is all but ground into dust, and still he rages.

Once there is nothing left to break, he stands panting in the center off the room, staring at the remains of his belongings. Yet more destruction by his hand... and some of these things he loved.

This is wrong, it's all wrong. He feels powerless, exhausted. Slowly, he makes his way back into the corner and sinks to the floor.

_I can still taste her blood, but it is bitter. Her scent is all over my clothes, all over my skin. I've scrubbed myself raw, but it won't come off. Worst of all, her eyes... I see them everywhere I look. They bore into my chest, and I can't breathe. _

_I wish she hadn't died. _

_Human life is sweet. I can only glimpse the best of it, but the people I hunt are its very embodiment. Everything that I am lately missing, all that I am coming to understand and to covet – they live it each day. _

_I destroy it. _

_But what else can I do? I suppose... I don't know. It has never mattered, so I have never looked for alternatives. Perhaps there is an easy answer. Do I really need human blood? Could I survive on other animals instead?_

_And if not, if I _must_ kill people to live... is it better to kill some and not others? _


	3. Chapter 3

*****

A/N: Ok, we're finally getting to the present day. Hope you're enjoying it so far. Any and all reviews are cool as lemonade on a hot summer night!

**We've been nominated! ** Commission has been nominated for "Favorite Darkward" at the Bellie Awards (.), and "Best Alternate Universe, WIP" category at the Indie TwiFic Awards ().

With each award, Commission will only get on the ballot if it's one of the top 4 or 5 to be nominated in that category. So, if you like what you've read,** please take a minute to nominate **the story for either or both awards. (Or some other award, if you're so inclined :) )

Disclaimer: SM owns all things Twilight, but this plot is mine. Also, the smokes.

*****

August 2005

Had it been possible for the vampire to maintain a human-free diet, redemption would have been a far less convoluted affair. However, biology proved neither sympathetic nor lenient - he quickly found that, although certain rules could be bent, they could never be broken. He was created a killer of men, and so he would remain.

Roger's Park had proved to be the site of his last careless murder, but in many ways, that night was the beginning of his struggle rather than the end. Empathy was now as much a part of his experience as bloodlust, but the two combined no better than raw sodium and water. Still, he was determined to find some middle ground, some way to reconcile the needs of his body with those of his burgeoning conscience. Surely, he reasoned, the lives of some were worth more than others; all he had to do was become a more judicious executioner.

Now, nearly one decade later, as the girl walked slowly down the hall and into his living room, he knew right away that the meeting would only waste his time.

He had still been in the shower when the buzzer rang nearly half an hour before it was expected, and he was almost irritated enough to ignore it. It had been a frustrating and fruitless night of hunting and an equally uncomfortable day trying to keep his mind off the particular type of thirst that had been nagging at him for over a week. The shower was refreshing, and he could have stood under the cool stream of water for another ten minutes. Instead, he clumsily bounded out of the bathroom, spraying water on the dark walnut floors, and after buzzing his visitor in, rushed back into the bedroom to dress.

He heard her steps up the stairs, and then the shuffling of her shoes outside of his door before she got close enough to knock. Form the bedroom, he called for her to come in as soon as her fist had touched the door frame. The front door was already ajar, and creaked lightly as she entered. She walked down the hall slowly, cautiously, he supposed. He stepped out of the bedroom just as she entered the living room. Water was still dripping off of the dark mess that was his hair, and he flicked a stray lock out of his eyes. The girl stood in the middle of the room with one hand jammed into a pocket, and the other on a large bulky bag that hung from her shoulder. Her face was a mix of displeasure and wariness, eyebrows drawn together and lips pressed into a tense frown.

He looked her over. No, this would not work out. He could smell nervousness rolling off of her in waves and didn't buy the bravado her clothes and posture were trying to project. He didn't need to talk to her to know that she was too damn nice to do him any good. He had spent enough time dealing with amoral and selfish people to know that she was quite short of the mark, whether or not she knew it herself.

He nearly dismissed her right then, but hesitated when his stomach rolled over in another pang of hunger. Well, it was vaguely possible that he was mistaken. She might have enough of a mean streak in her after all, or perhaps she could actually serve the purpose that he had originally sought when he began taking such visitors.

She shifted the bag on her shoulder, looking more and more uncertain as they stood in front of each other in silence. All right, he would hear her out.

"You're Bella Swan," he said.

"I..yes. And you are?"

"My name is Edward. How did you hear about me?"

"I was given your number by one of your colleagues." she said after a slight pause.

He frowned at this. "I don't have any colleagues."

"Well, that's what he called himself," she replied tersely. "Look, does it really matter?"

"Yes, it certainly does. On the phone, you claimed that we had mutual acquaintance. I need his or her name, or you'll have to leave."

"You didn't ask for any names when I called." Despite her nerves, the girl seemed annoyed at his insistence, and her willingness to show it surprised him.

"I don't discuss sensitive information over the phone," he replied coldly, and reached into his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one, walking across the room to one of the two recliners that occupied the middle of the room, facing each other. Lowering himself onto the plush leather, he continued to watch her. The girl had turned, following him with her suspicious eyes. The smoke began to swirl between them, and her next breath was slightly deeper as she inhaled the rich scent of tobacco and cloves.

"His name is Mike," she said finally, crossing her arms. "Friend of a friend. He lives in Chinatown, drives a delivery truck..." she trailed off and raised her eyebrows at him in expectation.

He knew who she was talking about, but her hostility made him reluctant to say so. Instead, he met her eyes steadily and blew several smoke rings. She shifted her weight and looked away.

"Mike Newton?" he asked, satisfied.

She nodded.

"I know Mike Newton."

Another silence stretched between them as Edward waited for her to elaborate and say something about why she had sought him out. Instead, she cast a longer glance around the room, this time avoiding eye contact, and fingered a buckle on her bag. He, in turn, took a moment to study her more closely. She was fairly ordinary in appearance – average height, shoulder-length brown hair, unremarkable face - perhaps with the exception of being too thin. Though her clothing hung loosely, he could tell by the bone structure of her slim wrists and prominent cheekbones that she wasn't eating properly. Familiar enough with cyclical weight loss by then, he wondered if she also had problems with nutrition, or merely chose to be so thin by adhering to some over-regimented diet. She wore no jewelery or make up, and her large hazel eyes were not flattered by the purple circles that underlined them. She was very pale, and when she blinked, he saw that tiny veins were visible through the thin skin of her eyelids. In fact, now that he looked more closely, he could just make out other delicate blood vessels in her cheeks and along her jaw. She had been chewing on her lower lip, and as she released it, he heard the faint thud of a tiny artery pulsing softly along its inner surface.

He shook his head, blinking furiously. The girl was examining the black and white photography that hung on the walls. If she was aware of his gaze, she was trying very hard not to show it.

"Sit down," he said, somewhat more forcefully than he intended. Her face snapped to his and she gave him a long and uncertain look before stepping to the other recliner. Sitting down, she put her bag on the floor and pulled an unopened pack of Marlboro's out the front pocket. Reaching back in, she continued to fumble through its unseen and numerous contents, but her hand came back empty.

She zipped the pocked shut with a jerk. "Can I have a light?" she asked, tugging impatiently at the plastic wrap of the red and white carton.

He frowned, then reached out to place the lighter and a cigarette on the glass coffee table between them. "If you're going to smoke, I'd rather you have one of mine." She looked at him quizzically, so he added "I can't stand the smell of cheap cigarettes."

"Fuck," she muttered, shaking her head, but took the cigarette anyway. As she began to smoke, he had the distinct impression that he was watching someone drown. She clutched the cigarette tightly between two fingers, its end flaring red with each greedy breath. When she opened her mouth to blow thick streams of smoke into the room, he could still hear the blood vessel in her lip.

He cleared his throat and asked "Why exactly did Mike Newton recommend me to you?"

"I need.. certain services," she replied, taking a long drag. "Ones that you provide, apparently. I've, uh, looked around a bit and.. you seem to have a reputation for being cheap and efficient."

"I see," he said and stood up. Ignoring her perplexed expression, he walked back into his bedroom and emerged moments later with a small digital voice recorder. When he turned it on and put it on the table between them, the girl pulled the cigarette out of her mouth and jerked forward.

"What the fuck is that for?" she demanded.

Ignoring the outburst, he replied "Before you say anything else, I want you to know that I will be recording this and all subsequent conversations you and I have. Should you change your mind or decide to renege on the terms of any agreement we come to, I will always have evidence of your involvement. If the police become aware of my activities, you would be implicated as well. If this doesn't suit you," he added after a pause, "then you should leave."

For a moment, he thought that she would. As he spoke, her eyebrows furrowed and she pressed her mouth into a tight angry line. He felt a flicker of disappointment at the thought of her departure, and then surprise as she slowly leaned back in her seat.

"Alright," she muttered. "But I want a copy."

He nodded, and waited again for her to speak. There was another long silence, and he wondered if she was deliberately trying to say as little as possible. "If you could repeat what you just told me," he prompted, "for the recording."

"Which part?"

"Your name and why you're here."

"Bella Swan." Another pause. The cigarette in her hand shook lightly, ash drifting to the floor with each twitch of the wrist. Suddenly, she leaned forward again and pulled two photographs out of her bag, laying them side by side on the coffee table. Each movement was sharp, forceful. "I want to hire you to kill two men. This one is Pat Taylor, and that's James Pelzer." She punctuated each name by stabbing a finger at the corresponding picture. Her eyes lingered on the photos briefly before she looked back at him.

"Who are they?"

"What do you mean?"

"Who are they?" he repeated, gesturing vaguely. "Where do they live, where to they work, how would I find them?"

"Oh." She pulled out a notebook and tore off a sheet of paper. "They're roommates in some dump in Uptown. Here's the address," she said, tossing the paper on top of the pictures. "Taylor's a cashier at a convenience store there, and Pelzer is a security guard at Loyola. Both work the night shift, get stoned on the weekends." She shrugged. "Shouldn't be too hard to find."

He moved the sheet of paper off the photos and leaned over the table for a closer look. One was taken at a party, and Pat Taylor looked drunk and rowdy. He was young, in his mid 20s, with a thick goatee and long black hair that hung around his face in matted cords. The logo on his shirt was the cover of a heavy metal album that had been popular over a decade prior. Beer raised in one hand, he looked past the camera with an open mouth, caught in the middle of some exclamation. Edward did not feel the least bit of interest in him at all.

The other photograph was a still shot, and had been ripped nearly in half, cutting off a shoulder of the man pictured. This one was older, with very short blond hair and dark, angular features. He looked directly into the camera, and his half-hearted smile did not reach his eyes. Though he was handsome, his face was not pleasant - despite the smile, his expression was cold and hard, as though chiseled out of rock. Edward lingered over James Pelzer for a long moment, studying the face closely.

The girl said they smoked marijuana, and judging from the look of the first one, that was probably just scratching the surface. Unfortunate. Polluted blood was hardly desirable, and had made him sick in the past. Still, it was better than- abruptly, he caught himself. Why was he about killing these men? Given how such meetings had unraveled in the past, that outcome was highly unlikely. And yet.. somehow, this meeting felt different.

He pushed the photographs away. What the men looked like and where they lived was largely irrelevant - there was a far more pressing point to clarify.

"Why do you want me to kill them?" he asked, watching closely for her response.

She ground the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray with superfluous force. "It doesn't matter."

"It does," he said with emphasis.

Her eyes snapped back to his, and the harshness of her expression caught him off guard. "I'm not here to tell you my fucking life story. Do you want the money or not?"

He didn't bother keeping the scowl off his face as he withdrew another cigarette from his pack and lit it, deliberately drawing out each motion. "I suspect," he said finally "that my services mean far more to you than your money does to me. If I'm wrong, then by all means, stop wasting my time and go. But I don't believe that I am, and if so, you should understand that my actions are not frivolous. When I ask you why you want these men killed, it is not to make small talk. If you want to secure my employment, then you should provide me with the information that I request."

She didn't reply. Edward let several more seconds drift by, then stood up, grabbing the voice recorder from the table. "Let yourself out," he said over his shoulder, turning to the bedroom.

He had crossed the living room before he heard the rustle of clothing against leather as the girl stood up.

"Wait," she said stiffly.

He paused, hand on the doorknob to his bedroom.

"My sister Alice died two years ago. Pat Taylor and James Pelzer were charged, but the trial was dismissed for lack of evidence. I know they killed her, but the police won't listen to me."

He turned. She stood with arms crossed tightly across her chest. "You're right," she said simply, "I need them to die." Her face was hard, vacant.

He took several steps back toward her. "What happened to your sister?"

The girl drew back from the question, but did not object again. She sat down and studied her long fingers, curled into fists on her lap. "She was raped and killed."

Edward sat down as well, putting the digital recorder between them again. "How do you know that? And how can you be sure that these two are the ones who did it?"

She looked up, lips curling bitterly. "She died at their apartment. Pelzer was the one who actually called 911. They used to live together. He said she'd shown up drunk that night and came onto both of them. Said they were all going at it when she passed out. They did an autopsy and found enough heroin in her system to kill an elephant. Since the cops didn't find any drugs at the apartment, they dropped all charges and called it an overdose."

"But you don't believe that."

"It's fucking bullshit," she spat out. Her leg had begun to bounce against the floor as she spoke, and the motion intensified now, though she didn't seem aware of it. She didn't say anything else, jaw clenched and eyes glued to a patch of flooring.

Edward waited a moment, then asked "What do you mean?"

She startled and glanced back at him vaguely.

"Why do you say it's bullshit?" he clarified.

Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you keep asking me these questions?" she countered, shaking off whatever had silenced her.

Edward felt his impatience flare. " I told you. There are certain things I need to know, and I don't find that necessary justify."

"Fine. Whatever," she muttered before continuing. "It's bullshit because that bastard Pelzer beat her up for to two years before she finally left him. The only reason she went back that night was to pick up her things. She didn't even think he'd be there. I never would have let her go alone if... It's bullshit because she wouldn't have gone near him, either one of them." She stopped again, then added "I know my own sister."

"But she was intoxicated. People often make poor choices - "

"It's wasn't a choice! She didn't get drunk or high that night. My father died an alcoholic, and my mother's been addicted to painkillers for nearly a decade. Believe me, that takes all the romance out of it for you. Alice had never even been drunk in her life, and especially not since - " she broke off, shaking her head vehemently. There was a heavy pause between each of her next words: "She didn't do heroin."

Edward met her heavy gaze and realized that a part of him had been ready to believe her from the start.

Still, he was determined to act rationally. Taking a moment to mull over what she had told him, he said "I find it difficult to believe that they did not have to stand trial, given the circumstances."

She scratched the inside of one wrist through a cotton sleeve. "Pelzer was a cop, and he had plenty of people to cover for him. He quit right after it happened, though, probably forced out to avoid embarrassment for the department." She shook her head again, one hand still fidgeting with the other. "Cops don't give a shit about one dead girl, just as long as a story like that never makes it to the papers. Fuckers, all of them."

"Why didn't you go to the press?"

She laughed once, a choked and biting sound. "That only works in the movies. Who's going to take my word over the entire police department's? I haven't exactly been a law abiding citizen, either. They'd just arrest me to shut me up."

"So you don't want to speak to the press because you fear being arrested, but you're willing to come to me?"

"Hey, fuck you," she shot back, and was on her feet again. "Don't judge me, you don't know shit about my life!" She bent down to pick up her back. "Look, I've told you what you wanted to know. Are you going to do it or not?"

"I don't know," he replied, casting another glance at the photographs on the coffee table.

"What?" she sputtered.

"I don't know," he repeated, punctuating each word. "I need to look into this, clarify a few things." Before she could object further, he picked up James Pelzer's photograph. "His previous line of work complicates things considerably."

"So how long will it take?" she demanded.

"Leave the photos and address with me, and come back in three days. I should know by then."

"Wait a minute," she protested, scratching at her wrist again. "Can't you just call me?"

"No," he said. "I don't discuss business over the phone."

She opened her mouth to say something else, but then, the old cut that she'd been nagging reopened. Edward jerked back just as she glanced down, rubbing her arm in surprise.

"Get out!" he growled, stumbling backwards.

"What? Wait-"

"Three days! " he repeated, slamming the door of the bedroom shut between them.

Bella Swan stood in the empty room for several moments, entirely uncertain of what had just transpired or how she should react. Then, she picked her bag off the floor and quickly left the apartment.

*****

A/N: If you're confused about Edward's behavior or motivation in this chapter, fear not. It is intentional. Several years have passed since we last saw him wrestling with his conscience, and the solutions he has come to are meant to be mysterious for now. But all will be revealed in due time.

On a related note, this is my very first public display of writing, and to be honest, I don't know what to make of it. I'm tickled pink to see that people are reading this story, and even getting as far as this chapter (the clever visitor statistics page told me so), so I can only assume that some of you like it. Still, feedback to a writer is like cud to a cow. We would ruminate on it all day long if we could.

So, if you're enjoying this story and would like to see more, please let me know. If people aren't into it, I'll just keep it on my hard-drive and pretend this experiment never happened :)

Chapter 4: What's the deal with Bella?


	4. Chapter 4

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A/N: Recognizable things belong to SM, everything else is mine.

As a word of caution, this chapter is a bit darker. If references to rape or cutting bother you, then proceed with caution.

Otherwise, enjoy, and remember - everyone loves reviews!!

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Bella walked home that evening, a long walk along the shores of Lake Michigan that took her out of the commercial heart of the city and past Lincoln Park. The sound of the water and the evening's warm humid air provided some distraction, and she was grateful for it. When she had left his – Edward's – apartment, she had been angry beyond words. She even tried to slam the front door of the building shut behind her, but its old hinges had resisted her pull, so she settled on thundering down to the sidewalk, shoes slapping the pavement with each step. The agitation that had been bubbling up in that apartment had finally burst, and she spent the first half of the walk venting out her anger in exclamations and sharp, clipped retorts. How dare he? Who the fuck did he think he was? The condescension and insistent questions had been bad enough - she deeply resented how much she had felt forced to reveal to him - but to be dismissed so abruptly, after exposing such a painful, private thing.. He hadn't even bothered to give her a straight answer in the end!

She shook her head, rerunning the episode in her mind for the third time. She shouldn't have done it - she should have left the moment he took out that stupid voice recorder. She wouldn't go back, she decided. Fuck him, and his terms and conditions.

She turned off the sidewalk then, and crossed the thin strip of sand to stand at the edge of the lake for a while. It was a Friday night and still early enough for joggers and couples to run and stroll along the beach. She did her best to ignore them, focusing on the small, steady waves that lapped at the sandy shore. Slowly, the tension began to ease out of her, draining away with each gentle swell of the water, dissipating bit by angry bit. She noticed that her hands were clenched into fists, and released them slowly, mindfully, each finger unraveling to hang heavy at her side. Watching the ripples and eddies disappear and reappear at her feet, she pushed away each unwelcome thought as it came, and found the exercise easier than usual. The water was calm, and calming.

After some time, she turned away and headed for home, less than a mile away now. Not an apartment, but an old house west of Halsted Street, tucked away from the busy traffic and storefronts on a quiet and tree-lined street. There was an elementary school at the end of the block, and some weekend mornings, Bella walked out to the playground with a cup of coffee to sit on a bench and watch children play around her, their laughter and eagerness sometimes amusing, sometimes infectious, but always temporary.

She walked up the wooden porch stairs to her front door and opened it slowly. Inside, silence greeted her, filling the dark and empty rooms completely. Her mother had been gone for nearly a year, and had put all of her belonging into storage when she left. It didn't make sense, she had said, to have Bella fuss with dusting and cleaning her things while she and Phil were away, since she didn't know when they'd be coming for them anyway. Not to be outdone, Bella later went through and removed most of the family furniture and decorations, putting them into storage as well. It was an act of bitterness and anger, masquerading as an honest attempt at a clean start.

Renee Swan had come back once since then and chided Bella for the state of the house. "It's like no one lives here, it's like a ghost house. Don't you at least want a rug or something?" she had asked, pursing her lips in disapproval. But Bella had brushed the subject off. She didn't want to explain to her mother that she would rather live among empty walls than be surrounded by the belongings of a family that had evaporated around her.

Renee wouldn't understand, or at the very least, wouldn't listen. She avoided any of Bella's "negativity," insisting that it conflicted with her own stages of grieving. Except that she wouldn't use the word "grief," she said "personal growth" instead. Each of them had to take responsibility for their own feelings, Renee insisted, and even if she knew how, she couldn't be her daughter's savior. Bella had to learn to save herself. She had to move past her anger and her morbidity, since wallowing in it would only make her life worse. The past was past, and in the meantime, Renee couldn't put her life on hold. She was 57 years young and had seen so little of the world before getting pregnant and married.

When her mother spoke like this, Bella found it difficult to hate her. Never mind Paris or Bali, Renee was just trying to get away, and in Bella's opinion, she need not have bothered with all the excuses. Just call a spade a spade, and admit that all you're doing is putting as much distance as possible between yourself and the house where you raised your two daughters.

It was when Renee wouldn't look her in eye, would find some reason to turn her head aside as soon as they began speaking, that Bella could not hold back her contempt.

It was too late for dinner, and she didn't feel particularly hungry, so she settled on the futon that served as her couch and bed with some fruit and watched the evening news. First the ten o'clock, then the eleven, then a re-run of a detective show from the 80s. She could have gone out - Eric from work had left a message about some bar where he and the guys from the shop were meeting - but she didn't want to. An evening out with 20-something bike mechanics was no different than a day of working with them, and she'd had enough of that for the week. Tonight, Bella just wanted to be alone.

She didn't have cable, and there was nothing else to watch. Turning off the television, she sat in the dark and silent room. She thought about the upcoming weekend and how best to take care of the chores piling up around the house. She worked two jobs, at a bike shop five days out of the week, and three more nights tending bar. That usually left only one day off, but Bella liked it that way. Tomorrow was it, and for a while, she distracted herself with planning how she would pass the time.

Maybe this would be the weekend that she would finally work on the garden and rid it of the weeds that had claimed squatter's rights in the once dense and well-kept plot.

Right. Gardening. Oh a bright and sunny Saturday morning, happily ripping out weeds and hacking away at the soil to plant daisies and lilies and tulips.

"Jesus Christ, Bella, who are you fucking kidding?" she said to the reflection in the darkened television screen, and her voice shook on the last word.

She couldn't garden. Gardening was what she did with her family, and her family was gone. Her father was long dead, her mother was busy trying to forget she'd ever been a mother, and Alice... Alice was worse than dead. Alice was taken, stolen away. The men who took her were free, and she, Bella, couldn't set foot outside of her house without seeing their faces in every person she passed on the street.

Oh Alice...

She missed her sister beyond words. She could empty the house of Alice's things, could avoid the places they had frequented together, but nothing could ease the grief and loneliness. It began that night at the hospital, as Bella waited desperately for her best friend to wake up, and two years later, a part of her was still waiting. She still awoke most mornings to the crushing realization that she would never see her sister again.

She had never known her father, not really, and she and Renee had grown apart years before, so her mother's absence was all but expected. But Alice... Dear Alice - her companion, her confidant, her very best friend - she was dead.

And Bella was alone.

This new life was so strange... had it really been two years? What had she done with them? Filled the day with one meaningless job, then another. Sat in an old empty house. Ate an apple for dinner. Tossed through another restless night.

Bella took a deep breath, and began to fidget with the ring on her left thumb. The thin silver band spun crookedly around her finger. Her stomach had become jittery. She wasn't feeling very well.

Alice wasn't just dead. Alice was murdered. She had suffered, had been hurt, humiliated and violated. And it was him, the bastard that Bella had hated even before bruises began to show up on her sister's body. He, both of them, were free, and just a few miles away. She might have ridden the train with one of them last week or walked past the other on the street.

They knew her, they knew where she lived, they knew what they had done to her family. Even now, they probably laughed about it together. Had a few beers, smoked a bowl, and talked about the girl that they-

Stop it, Bella.

But what was she supposed to do? Just let it go? She couldn't forget, and she certainly wouldn't forgive. Yet, she was helpless – she couldn't set things right by herself, she could barely keep her own life from careening off the tracks. She had gone to the police, and then to therapy. Even tried medication, but it was pointless. Her sister was dead, James Pelzer and Pat Taylor were free, and here she was, awake at one in the morning on another Friday night, unable to think of anything else.

Other people knew how to move on, how to grieve - widows got remarried, children buried their parents, but she, somehow, had gotten stuck. It wasn't just death; Bella had dealt with that before. She may not have known much of her father, but he was still her father, and his passing had been the most traumatic event of her thirteen years. But that was different. Her sister wasn't terminally ill or struck by a car in some freak accident. Her death wasn't an act of nature - it was an act of evil. Someone chose to make her suffer, and to take her away.

Someone killed her.

And for what? The most vile, fucked up, utterly deplorable reasons that Bella could think of. They were sadists and rapists, and they had gotten away with everything because James Pelzer had been a cop.

Could life really be that fucked up? That her sister, her beautiful, wonderful sister, could be destroyed for someone's entertainment?

Jesus fucking Christ, who was running this goddamn side-show?

"Please," she said out loud, "please tell me this is your idea of some fucked up joke." Her heart was beating faster now. "Come on!" she spat at the darkness. "Where's the fucking punchline??"

Goddammit, Bella, you're doing it again. Calm down. Get a grip.

The butterflies in her stomach had turned into angry bees. If dinner had been anything more than half an apple and some grapes, she'd be on the bathroom floor puking it up.

It was so fucked up, she was so fucked up.

God, if she could just stop thinking…!

Her breath grew heavier, rushing past her lips in short ragged wheezes. Fingers gripping thighs, she felt as though her body was spinning. What had Alice looked like to them? Did they undress her first, or only after calling the police? Did she cry, did she fight them? Did they take turns holding her down? Did she know that she was dying?

"Uuughhh," it wasn't a groan and it wasn't a cry, but it tore out of her chest and fluttered around the room like a dying bird. The sound of it was enough to break through the spell for a moment.

"Get a grip, just get a grip," Bella told herself through clenched teeth. She closed her eyes and started to count, trying to visualize the numbers in her head. She spoke each one out loud, and imagined the digit stenciled into the inside of her eyelids, appearing and then disappearing to give way to the next. She tried to time the count to the rhythm of her breathing, one steady inhale for one solid number.

For a moment, it seemed to work, and she felt her pulse slowing down as she concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest and the flow of air through her nostrils. But the anxiety came back, as it always did, first as muddled noise, then louder, barging into the foreground of her mind and drowning out all attempts to sedate it.

She was losing it again. Again, again.

Angry and frustrated tears welled up in her eyes, and her mouth stretched into a despairing grimace as she began to sob. Would this ever end? Would she ever be able to think about her sister without imagining her beaten and torn body?

No, it wouldn't.

She would never find peace, and it was only a matter of time before this house couldn't hold the beast any longer. One day, she would break down at work or on the El, and they would lock her up in some institution because she was fucking crazy. She'd become a ward of the state, and they would sell this house to pay for the useless treatment, leaving her in some cell before she managed to smuggle in a pen or a fork to end this madness once and for all.

For a second time, Bella managed to pull herself away from the ominous and obsessive narrative. She wasn't crazy. She didn't feel this way all the time. It was just a panic attack. It would pass. She should go to sleep. She should try to sleep. Tomorrow would be better. She should go to sleep.

She dragged herself up from the couch, and the fruit plate clattered to the floor, green grapes rolling in all directions. She didn't pause to clean them up. Tomorrow would be better, tomorrow she'd be better. Come on Bella, just go to bed. Just go to bed, lie awake for another three hours, and think about how many times they-

Shit.

She made a sharp detour to the kitchen and pulled some vodka out of the freezer. Not bothering with a glass, she tilted the bottle back for each long swallow. The ice-cold fluid seemed to burn her throat, and after four gulps, she began to feel a ringing in her ears. It buzzed and hummed, and she couldn't really hear anything else, but it was a blissful, empty sort of noise. Back against the wall, she slid down to the floor with an audible thump. The cool tile felt good against her feet and hands, and she wanted to stretch her whole body out.

She sat in the dark for a while, cradling the vodka bottle against her chest. It was cold, too. The tears had stopped, but the thoughts wouldn't. She imagined her sister arriving at their apartment. Surprise when she found them there, then alarm. Then fear, and panic, and pain. It was like some horrific movie, where you knew the ending, but kept watching anyway, hoping that it would change. If Bella had been there, if she had just gotten off her lazy ass and gone to help her sister pack up her things, then none of this would have happened. Alice would be alive, and they would be together. Happy.

Shut up, stop it. Go to bed. First, the bathroom, then bed.

Somehow, the bottle made its way back into the freezer, and she found the bathroom without stubbing her toe - one clear advantage of a nearly empty house. She plopped down on the toilet and took a deep breath, her head spinning, but only a little. Somewhere through the fog, she hesitated. She was trying to quit this, right? She didn't like it, it wasn't good. But it was, it really was, and if it would just shut everything else up, it was worth all the gold in China.

She opened a drawer under the sink and fumbled around for a moment before her fingers found the small leather case. She pulled it out and left the drawer open. She used to share this bedroom with Alice, and Alice hated when she didn't close the drawers. Oh, Alice...

She pulled a razor blade out of the case and held out one arm - the other one, not the one that had been bleeding earlier that day. And when it bled, the man had acted so strange...

Pulling back a sleeve, she lay the little razor against her bare skin and leaned back for a moment. The silver metal gleamed in the light, and she tilted her wrist back and forth to watch the white spot slide along the blade. Like a star or a diamond. Alice had worn diamonds, little stud earrings she'd gotten for her 16th birthday, and she never took them off.

Bella picked up the razor. The sharp edge sat on top of her skin now, and she thought about the pain. The sudden sharp prick and then the dull throb. She shifted her legs so that her arm was directly above the water, which sat clear and still. She thought about the blood that would run down her arm and break that stillness. The red drops falling and spinning and spreading and sinking to the porcelain, leaving streamlines that would dissipate into the water like streaky airplane clouds in the sky.

The anticipation was sweet, almost sweet enough. She pushed down slowly, watching the skin stretch under the pressure of the blade, and curve, rippling. She tilted one edge down, deeper, and when its sharp corner broke the skin, she let out a long soft sigh. The first cut wasn't deep, and it took a moment before blood began to pool around the metal. A drop traced its crimson path around and down her thin wrist before it fell. More followed, and soon, Bella's breathing was as steady as the soft pat of heavy drops breaking through the surface of the water.

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Chapter 5: First Bella, then Edward, then Bella AND Edward!

Reviews are awesome, so run and leave me some :D


	5. Chapter 5

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A/N: Hey everyone, thanks for reading and reviewing!  
Disclaimer: SM owns everything recognizably Twilight, and music credits go to Mr. Tom Waits.

Thanks a bunch to my beta Twilightzoner, who is awesome not just for sexually torturing poor Edward and his monster..

Enjoy, and please leave a review if you have any feedback!

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Light woke her. Bella cracked open an eyelid, her mind too muddled with leftover dreams to make any sense of the fact that it was morning. Bright sunlight streaked across the pine floors of her living room, and it seemed to set the wood aglow. Suspended flecks of dust floated slowly through each light beam, as if unfettered by the movement of air or the pull gravity.

Bella began to turn away, reluctant to let go of sleep so easily. She lifted one arm to shield her face from the light, but something was tugging it back. As she tried to flip over, she felt sharp pain shoot through the wrist she had been lying on. Her eyes flew open and she stared at her arm for a moment, not understanding what she saw. Then, she closed them wearily and groaned.

She had cut herself last night. Had gotten drunk and not even bothered to bandage up the wounds. The deepest one had broken open while she slept, blood soaking into the sheets and gluing fabric and skin together. These were new sheets, too.

She sat up slowly, wincing at a headache. Her arm was bleeding again, but at least it had come free from the linens. When she stood up, her foot landed on a stray grape and crushed it. She wanted to curse, but bit her lip instead, and pushed the pulpy lump aside.

In the bathroom, she ran cold water over the injured wrist, watching the tinted stream swirl into the drain. When the dried blood was washed away, she methodically folded several sheets of toilet paper and pressed them against the cut, waiting for the bleeding to stop. The razor from last night lay on a corner of the white porcelain sink, stained with rust-colored blood. Bella looked away.

Standing in front of the mirror, she stared into her own face. Large brown eyes looked back at her, obscured by tangled wisps of chestnut-colored hair. Tired eyes. Limp hair.

"This has to stop," she said to her reflection. "You have to stop."

But I don't know how.

"Go back to that man. Pay him what he asks. Get this over with."

It won't help.

"It has to help. You've tried everything else."

It's not right. And it won't fix anything.

"You've tried everything else."

***

Edward heard the heavy door to his apartment slam shut, and knew that the girl had left. He stood in a far corner of his bedroom, gripping the edge of a bookshelf with both hands, and grinding his teeth. His shoulders straightened incrementally at the sound of her departure, and after a while, he let his arms fall back to his sides. The smell of her blood had not followed him into the bedroom, but he could still feel it, simmering in the back of his throat.

He all but growled in frustration. That damned girl. He'd have to feed now. He couldn't risk going out among people after being so close to human blood. It had been too long since his last proper meal, and he'd been having trouble keeping himself in check as it was. Now, he couldn't trust going anywhere on an empty stomach.

Jesus, he was so hungry. All he needed was one body - a bum, a hooker, just one. _Any_one...

No. (He slammed the palm of one hand into the wall for emphasis.)

He would wait. He was too close to success with the latest hunt, he reminded himself, and killing somebody else now would undo nearly six weeks of work. Besides, he had a busy night ahead of him. All of the rounds had to be made, on top of this latest inquiry. He had told the girl three days, and he had a hunch that confirming her story would take at least that long.

But he had to eat _something_. It would have to be another "salad" then - he grimaced at the thought. The last thing he wanted to do in the coming hours was run around the suburbs catching stray dogs and cats, but he really had no choice. There was no time to drive far enough for deer hunting, and anything belonging to the rodent family was simply out of the question. None of these would be a long-term solution anyway, but drinking some kind of blood would do enough to ease the danger for now. So he hoped.

He changed out of his habitual attire, slacks and a button-down shirt, into running clothes, and left his apartment, heading for the lake. Almost immediately, he caught faint remnants of the girl's scent among the various odors of the city- she must have come this way as well. He felt the aroma of her blood filling up his nostrils with every breath. Damn it.

He turned off the direct route then, the one that she had taken, and wove through city streets for a dozen blocks before coming to the bicycle path which traced the perimeter of Lake Michigan for many miles in each direction. It was an extraordinarily strenuous detour to make as he was forced to wait for lights to change among other pedestrians. When he finally made it to the lake, he broke into a steady run, setting a pace that was fast enough to fly past any people he encountered, but not so much so that it would draw unnecessary attention. As hungry and malnourished as he was, it would have been a strain to travel much faster anyway.

It would be a long night. He had destinations in three corners of the city, but no certainty that surveillance at any of them would be fruitful. Still, he would carry out the patrol, as he had most nights in the past month, and he would wait until the opportune moment.

His hunger was growing exponentially now, but he would not let it interfere.

Edward was a predator, and he knew how to stalk his prey.

***

It was Monday night, 9 pm, and Bella was at Edward's front door for a second time. She'd had to change her schedule at the bar to be here, and was all the more determined to come away with what she wanted. She'd even brought cash, though he had yet to name a price, and told herself that she would not leave until a deal was made.

She didn't have to ring the buzzer this time, someone was walking out of the door just as she came to strand in front of it. Inside the building, she began up the narrow staircase with steady, resolute steps. By the fifth floor, though, her pulse was loud in her ears, and she paused to catch her breath.

As she bent down to re-tie the shoe lace of one canvas sneaker, music began to play somewhere above her. There was only one more floor, and only one more apartment spanning it, so there was no mystery about where the sound was coming from. Single notes from a piano traced out a delicate melody, then the sound swelled as deep, heavy chords joined in. It was a slow piece, its higher tones rambling drearily among the lower ones. Weaving into each other with a morbid diligence, the notes formed a plaintive collection, as though resigned to their mutual fate.

She recognized the melody, but could not remember the song itself. It was sad, fatal.

She paused for a long moment to listen to the music, curious to remember how she knew it, but could not. Then, she continued up the stairs.

On her third step, the music stopped abruptly, and Bella realized that it had not been a recording.

There was a piano in his apartment? She had not seen one before....

He played the piano?

Well, never mind. It wasn't his hobbies that she was interested in.

Coming up to the thick, richly finished door of his apartment, she knocked on it loudly. Hurried steps were audible from within, as though rushing from one room to another. Then, they traced their way down the hall to the front door, and three locks sounded in succession.

Edward flung the door open.

"Hello," she said without a pause.

"Hello." He took several steps back, still facing her, then turned and briskly walked into the living room.

She followed him, and again they found themselves facing each other from two recliners, the voice recorder already blinking on the table between them. On her way into the room, Bella couldn't help looking around for the piano, and saw its black curves peeking out from a half-opened door that she had not noticed on her last visit.

Edward was flexing each of his fingers one by one. He looked different. His mahogany hair was strewn haphazardly across his forehead, and his eyes seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into his face. He moved strangely too, far less composed than she remembered him. Before, he had seemed as still as a rock, and it had unnerved her. Now, he was restless, fidgety. He wouldn't look at her for more than a moment before his eyes darted away.

"So did you - "

"I've been - "

They both stopped. Bella waited for him to continue.

"I've been looking into the matter of the two men," he began again. "As I said before, the connection to a police department is not ideal. But, I can do the job."

"Oh," Bella said, despite herself. That had been easy. "Well…good. Good. What about the -"

"The fee?" he interrupted. Now, he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Five thousand each. Give me half now, half once it's done."

"So ten thousand…total?" It was easily half of what she had been expecting.

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No. It's fine. Ten thousand is fine."

"Good," he said. Their eyes met again. Edward rose to his feet, and picked up the voice recorder. Bella took this as the end of their conversation and stood up as well. Then, she pulled the wad of hundreds out of her purse, and began to count. As she thumbed through the crisp notes, he began to pace before her. She arched an eyebrow and looked up to find him staring at her hands. Or was it her arms? Suddenly, she was conscious of the fresh cuts that now decorated her left forearm. She was wearing another long sleeved shirt, but the sleeve had ridden up when she had reached into her purse, revealing one of the wounds. She pulled the sleeve down roughly, and resumed counting the money, working much faster now.

He continued to pace.

"Five thousand," she finally said, and reached out with her right hand to hand him the money. He all but snatched it from her. "How will I know when it's done?" she asked.

"It won't be right away. I have another job to finish first, and I prefer to space my work out."

She frowned. "So how long?"

"A few weeks."

She crossed her arms. "You can't do it any faster?"

His own brows furrowed, as he stuffed the money carelessly into a pant pocket. "Look, this is how I work. You need to stop trying to control everything."

She flinched back angrily. "I'm not trying to control anything. I just want to know when you're going to finish the job that I am paying you for."

"I'll let you know," he said. "I have your number."

"But you said - "

"I'll let you know!" he snapped, and she clamped her mouth shut. He was flustered now, his awkwardness taking on a darker tone. Bella's stomach did a little flip, and she suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

"Ok." She stepped back toward the hallway. "Then we're done here?"

"Yes," he said, his tone a bit softer.

She walked to the door and felt his eyes on her back as he continued to stand in the living room.

"Bella," he suddenly said.

She paused.

"Your sister was pregnant."

She sucked in her breath, and turned back to face him again.

"I read the police report. That is why you're certain she didn't take any drugs that night, yes?"

He looked at her with inscrutable eyes. She bit her lip, and jerked her head down once in response.

They stood in silence again.

Then, he said "I'm sorry."

With one more nod, she turned and walked out.

***

Later that night, as Bella settled into bed, she found it remarkably easy not to think about anything. She'd had a glass of wine with dinner – a real meal for once – but was otherwise sober. No television, no late night reading to help the drowsiness along. Brushing her teeth, she felt a comfortable fatigue descend over her, and was looking forward to sinking into her pillows.

It was a very welcome change from her usual bedtime routine.

For once, her mind was not racing a mile a minute, not ruminating on or obsessing over things Bella wished she could forget. No, tonight was one of those rare nights when everything was quiet, and she just felt... still.

Sleep was approaching. Though she was still half awake, she began to dream. Strange visions arose, complete with a soundtrack - a deep, gravely voice that seemed to spin its words together into a crooked spider web.

_In the back of his head..._

_...it was his devil twin..._

Her lungs had slowed to a sleeper's pace, as each breath became deeper and more synchronized.

_...she spoke to him, _

_things heard only in hell_

What she saw was muddled and incoherent, but the voice and its song stood out clearly against the dream's warped landscape.

_...hung himself and her, _

_from the balcony irons_

Even in her sleep, she recognized the words, and strained to recall the the song in its entirety. It was becoming more distorted now, the couplets blending together into the unmistakable timbre of a piano. Suddenly, she could remember the rest. She stirred and awoke, the final stanza echoing clearly in her head.

_Some still believe he was freed from her, _

_but I knew her too well._

_I say she drove him to suicide,_

_And took poor Edward to hell. _


	6. Chapter 6

Wednesday night at the bar was slow, and by midnight, the place was almost quiet enough for Bella to hear herself think. Since she wasn't closing that night, she had already begun her end-of-shift chores. Repopulating the shelves with clean stemware and the proper quantity of liquor was always the bartender's job, and tonight, Bella was also responsible for the trash. One by one, she hauled the giant bags out of their containers and into a Dumpster in the alley while a waitress watched the bar. Christina was a wholesome sort of girl, and on the right day, her saccharine smile and perkiness could bring out the worst of Bella's misanthropy. Nevertheless, a rigorously Midwestern upbringing and abundant tipping were no match for a coworker's sarcasm, and Christina stayed Christina – blonde, cheerful, and eager to please.

Pulling the third load of garbage to the Dumpster behind the bar, Bella stopped for a moment to roll up the sleeves of her shirt, which kept falling down despite her best efforts to keep them out of the way. As she folded the thin cotton fabric into a tight cuff, she glanced out into the street. A nearly-empty bus thundered by, its driver undoubtedly hurrying to finish his final run.

She was about to reach for a bag to sling into the giant metal receptacle when a familiar figure caught her eye. He was on the other side of the street, and had been walking briskly before pausing to light a cigarette. Flicking the lighter impatiently, he kept his eyes fixed on something ahead of him.

She straightened and looked on. After several futile attempts, he shoved the lighter back into his pocket, and continued down the sidewalk, his pace quickening.

Bella stepped away from the Dumpster, and, with a glance back to the bar, decided that she could spare a few minutes.

In the past few days, she had spent more time thinking about her odd acquaintance than she would have cared to admit. For one thing, he wasn't at all what she had expected from a contract killer. While she didn't exactly spend her time socializing with such people, it was reasonable to form an opinion about someone who had chosen this profession, and Edward was decidedly unlike the hitman she had prepared herself for. No obvious tattoos, for one thing, and a surprisingly robust vocabulary. While he wasn't exactly personable, he certainly wasn't thuggish either, and projected an air of sophistication that clashed strongly with Bella's preconceptions. She had even found herself admiring the decor of his apartment.

That is not to say that their interaction had been normal – no, he was definitely strange. Strange and moody and taciturn. He kept doing things that vexed her, like his ridiculous snobbery about what brand of cigarettes she smoked, or his refusal to give her straight answers while demanding his own. And staring at her arms – she still didn't know what to make of that. People often reacted strongly to the sight of cuts and scars, so she was used to gawking, but the intensity of his gaze had been downright disturbing.

Those tendencies, as well as his general lack of congeniality, should have added up to aversion on Bella's part. Yet, there were other things about him that just didn't add up, and had kept her thinking. She wondered why he had been so intent on getting the details of Alice's death. The idea seemed silly, but it was almost as though he were mining for evidence, trying to determine if her story was true. He had even gotten a hold of the police report somehow - surely that was not standard protocol for a professional killer.

Then there was what he had said to her before she left his apartment the second time – that he was sorry. That had caught Bella completely off-guard. She began to wonder what he thought of her, and whether or not he cared. Did he pity her, then? Is that why he had named such a low price?

And he played the piano. Not just that, he played poignant and melancholy songs on the piano... What kind of a hitman was he, anyway?

These were the questions that had been stewing in Bella's mind for the past two days, and now, as she stepped onto the sidewalk after Edward's quickly disappearing form, she thought only of finding some answers.

He was walking very quickly and was already a block ahead of her. She began jogging to keep pace, but took care not to close the distance between them. She kept scanning the sidewalk on both sides of the street, but couldn't figure out whom he could have been following. She did notice that he seemed to be going to great lengths to avoid other pedestrians, pausing behind some and shifting away from others as though maintaining the borders of an invisible cocoon.

Two more blocks like this and Bella was starting to get winded. How the hell was he managing to walk that fast?

Abruptly, Edward stepped off the curb, crossing the street through a gap in the late night traffic, and slowed his pace considerably. She stopped short, afraid of being noticed, and let him cross an intersection before continuing on, now even more cautious.

Seconds later, she halted again. He had stopped in front of a bar near a group of smokers who were milling about the entrance. Again, she noticed that he left plenty of space between himself and the others, but to a passerby he would have looked like just another bar patron stepping out for a smoke. True to form, he leaned against the wall, lit his cigarette (successfully this time) and took a long drag. He continued to gaze straight ahead of him, and the other smokers ignored him as well.

Bella herself ended up next to an ATM, and pretended to fumble through her wallet for a bank card, watching his still form out of the corner of her eye.

Several tense minutes stretched past, and she was becoming more uncertain with each one, convinced that the man in front of her would turn around at any moment and catch her in her foolish game of espionage. She had no idea of what she would do then. In fact, this whole thing had been devoid of any sensible ideas – she didn't even know what she was hoping to discover by following him. And Christina at the bar was surely starting to wonder where she'd gone. She might even alert the night manager out of some misplaced sense of camaraderie, and then Bella would have to explain herself once she got back. Uh, sorry boss... Just wanted to see what the hitman I've hired was up to these days, you know.

Still, she had followed him this far, and her curiosity was only growing. This was not some midnight stroll through the city – his actions were focused and deliberate, suggesting an errand of importance.

While she fidgeted with her ATM card and threw glances over one shoulder or the other, Edward stood very still. Apart from exhaling smoke, or flicking ash from the cigarette's end, he seemed not to have moved a muscle - not to turn his head at the staccato noises coming from the drunk, rowdy men behind him, nor to shift his weight against the hard brick wall. A strong gust of wind swept past, ruffling his hair and clothes, but he remained motionless, as though a part of the very wall he leaned against. The contrast of this man to those behind him was striking - eerily so.

When he did move again, Bella was so startled that she almost dropped the wallet she was still holding. Mesmerized now, she watched him walk up to another group of people who had just come out of a restaurant several doors away. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he addressed one of them, a woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties. She seemed surprised and acknowledged him stiffly. After a moment's hesitation, she waved the rest of her party on as they flagged down a taxi. Once alone, Edward said something else, nodding his head toward a nearby alley, and the woman consented. Shoulders hunched forward and hands still in his pockets, he followed her as their forms blended into shadow and disappeared.

Bella's heart had begun to beat faster the moment he stepped away from the wall, and now, she took a long breath to steady the butterflies in her stomach. Shoving the wallet back into a pocket of her denim skirt, she made her way toward the opening of the alley into which the two had turned. The group of smokers was heading back into the bar, and in a moment of inspiration, she stopped one of them and asked for a cigarette of her own. The man obliged, and she neared the alley prepared to use Edward's own disguise against him to eavesdrop on whatever these two had to say to each other.

She heard nothing, however, and a quick peek around the corner revealed an empty backstreet, nearly identical to the one she had dragged garbage to just minutes before. Puzzled now, she crept forward, pulling in a lungful of smoke with every other step.

Partway down the alley, she heard voices coming from a narrow corridor to the right. It separated two mid-rise buildings with less than twelve feet of haphazard pavement, such that the fire escape along one wall nearly touched its counterpart on the other.

A fine beading of sweat broke out on her brow as she flattened herself against a wall and strained to hear the conversation floating back to her through the humid night air.

"...don't understand what you're accusing me of," the woman was saying. "I didn't speak to anyone about you or our meeting. You're the one who recorded the whole thing." Her tone was defensive and flustered.

"And yet... the police came to _my_ door, ask- asking about _your_ ex-husband," Edward replied tersely. His voice sounded strange – strained and uneven, and Bella could hear that he was pacing again. He seemed even more agitated and impatient than he'd been when she last spoke to him, and she found this behavior a bizarre contradiction with the statue he had embodied just moments earlier.

Maybe he wasn't a people person, she thought to herself, and couldn't help but smirk at the idea of a hitman who was.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" the woman demanded.

"Clean it up," he said sharply. "Hit and run... whoever you hired is obviously, _obviously_ an amateur."

"Excuse me! As I recall, you refused the job at the last minute, so of course I went to someone else. Someone who had a better reputation than you, I might add. There is nothing to fix. Larry is dead, and if you know what's good for you, you will never mention my name to the police, no matter how many times they come around again!" Her voice rose on the last few words, echoing off the surrounding walls.

"Then you admit it was a hired job?"

"Well, of course it was!" she exclaimed, sounding exasperated. "You think Larry was nice enough to jump under the wheels on his own? He would have lived another fifty years just to spite me. Look," she added sternly, "we're done here. I'm leaving."

High heels clicked against pavement, and Bella froze, panic-stricken. Any moment now, the woman, and then Edward, would turn the corner and discover her standing there in plain sight. Frantically, she wondered if feigning a drunken sleep, face against the wall, would be enough of a disguise. Her cigarette had nearly burned down by then, and she threw the butt away, preparing to drop to the ground.

The woman paused. "If I ever see you again, Mr. Smith" she said curtly, "you're going to wish you'd never met me. I don't think you've ever fully understood who you're dealing with."

"Oddly enough," came the gruff reply, "I could say the same with respect to you."

What Bella heard next, she did not understand, but the sound of it was enough to throw her into a defensive crouch. Shoes shuffled against gravel, and she heard what sounded like the impact of bodies hitting each other, and then the ground. Grunts and muffled exclamations followed, then the clang of something heavy striking a fire escape.

Then, silence.

Bella realized she had been holding her breath, but was too scared to let it out all at once. Exhaling so slowly that it was almost painful, she strained to hear anything else. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she had to force herself to stay still while her mind struggled to make sense of what was happening.

Why was everything so quiet? They couldn't have just disappeared. If he had attacked the woman, as she strongly suspected he had, then at least he would still be conscious. Was he robbing her? Yet there was no sound of keys or makeup tumbling out of a purse, no clothing being riffled through. Was he just standing there, then? Or had he hit his head in the struggle, and lay unconscious as well?

Should she check? Should she call the police?

_No, no, just go. This whole thing is fucking weird, just get out of here!_

That would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, a part of her was horrified to find her neck twisting, ever so slowly, to peer around the edge of the brick wall she crouched against. Every sound her body made seemed deafening, though the internal protests which overwhelmed her thoughts were almost as loud.

_Stop, don't do it, run away, get away, don't LOOK!!_

But look she did, one eye shifting past the brick that blocked her vision. The narrow corridor was surprisingly well lit, more so than the alley it branched off of, and it was definitely not empty. Less than fifteen feet away, Edward crouched against a fire escape, the red tones in his hair nearly gleaming in the light that came from the windows above. He was facing away from her, the profile of his face obscured by shadow. The woman was there, too, lying on the ground in front of him, but Bella could only make out her legs and torso while Edward huddled over her upper body.

She held her breath, and began to shift her weight so that both eyes could focus on the scene.

Edward moved just as she did, his shoulders shifting as his head dipped lower to the prone form before him.

She jerked back, pressing her face against the wall, and listened. Apart from the street noise, she heard nothing, and after a moment, convinced herself that she had not been seen.

What the fuck was going on?

Wincing at every sound she made, Bella reached into the front pocket of her skirt for her cell phone. It was a newer model, both slim and feature-rich, complete with a digital camera. Its little round eye sat at the very top of the case, a design feature that she was suddenly grateful for. Making sure that the ringer was off, she slowly slid the phone along the ground until the camera lens jutted out into the alley. She pushed the record button, infinitely glad that the keypad tones on this phone were disabled by default. The screen flared to life with a miniature, though pixilated version of the scene she had just witnessed. Angling the camera for a better view, she stiffened her arm to steady the image, and studied the screen intently, trying to understand what she was seeing.

He was doing something to the woman (who was at best unconscious) - something which apparently required intense focus. Bella could see now that he was supporting her shoulders and head with one arm, while pressing the other against the pavement for balance. His body was wound into a tight ball as he bent over her, knees nearly up to his chin, and his neck was taut and extended toward her head.

The pose looked uncomfortable and awkward, but he held it perfectly. The only motion she saw was the rhythmic ripple of his shoulders and upper back as his head shifted slightly to and away from the body he held.

It looked as though- no. No way.

It looked as though he was drinking.

Her heart skipped a beat, then began to beat faster.

_Drinking? Drinking what? _she wondered frantically.

_Drinking blood_, came the immediate answer.

No, it couldn't be true! Yet, even the poorly rendered image on the screen of her phone suggested little else. She couldn't move, couldn't tear her eyes away, at once horrified and hypnotized by the sight.

She remained there, frozen in place, for what must have been only seconds, but felt like hours.

Suddenly, Edward straightened, and lowered the body he held. He lifted his face to the light, panting, and gulped several deep breaths, letting the last one out with a shudder. Something dripped from his chin to the ground and he wiped at it absently with an open palm. Instinctively, Bella shrank back from him and turned her face away, thrusting her chin painfully into the wall. She bit her lip to keep from crying out, and looked back to the screen on her phone.

Shit. Shit shit shit!

He was looking at her.

No, wait. Not at her, but in her direction.

_Don't move. Don't. Fucking. Move._

He had dropped the woman's body and pulled himself up to his full height. He looked tall, taller than she remembered. Every muscle in her body was rigid, and she knew that if he moved toward her, she would be up running for her life.

He tilted his head to one side and inhaled sharply. She held her breath, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs.

Suddenly, a siren blared out behind her, and she heard the screech of breaks as a car slid to a stop somewhere nearby. She blinked in surprise, and when she looked at her phone again, Edward had disappeared from the view. His footsteps hit the ground, heading away from her hiding place. The metal fire escape sounded under his weight, and she could barely make out the faint and impossibly fast steps upward.

A commotion had developed out in the street. The shouts of police and bar patrons interfered with her hearing, and after the soft patter of feet landed on the roof, she heard nothing more. Seconds after he had left the ground, he was gone.

Held in place by fervent indecision, Bella let nearly a minute trickle by. Then, mustering her last shred of resolve, she straightened. Eyes scanning the rooftops to make sure he was really gone, she crept around the building and into the space that he and his victim had just occupied.

The body was gone, too, and she could only guess that he had taken it to avoid leaving evidence. With slow and reluctant steps, she moved forward until she came to stand over the same patch of pavement that he had crouched on.

Shaken and frantic as she was, she had to be sure.

Sinking to the ground, she examined it closely, and found them almost immediately. Three fat red drops glistened dully in the light. They seemed to stare back at her, daring her to deny the truth.

The woman was dead.

He killed her.

He bit her. He drank her blood.

Oh sweet Jesus, he _ate_ her....

_Vampire._ The word flashed through her mind and leapt from her lips, echoing against the surrounding walls. There had been the news reports, the recommended safety precautions... and she had always been stupid enough to ignore them. Even now, a part of her could not believe what was staring her in the face.

The hitman was a vampire. It wasn't about money for him, it was about a meal.

The woman had been his client, and now she had become his dinner.

Bella shook her head violently from side to side. Why did the woman agree to talk to him alone, to come with him to this alley? How could she have been so foolish? Didn't she understand how dangerous he was??

No, Bella realized, she didn't. They'd certainly met alone before in some other secluded place (like his apartment) and she had probably decided, consciously or not, that if he had wanted to harm her he would have done it already (isn't that what Bella had told herself before going to meet him the second time?) So when he asked to speak in private, the woman would have agreed without much consideration of where she was and who she was with... because she already trusted him.

Like Bella had begun to.

Oh God.

It was a trap. It was all a trap. He didn't care about Alice, and he certainly didn't give a shit about her. It was all lies, all part of his game, part of his... hunt. And she was next. Of course she was. Hadn't he said something about wanting to space his "work" out? Of course... He was biding his time with her, stringing her along before he got hungry again. Then, he would lure her away under some pretense and kill her just like he had killed this poor woman.

Bella was shaking. She pushed herself off the ground and scrambled back to the street. How lucky, how damn lucky she had been to see him walking past the bar, and then to follow him here. She didn't feel lucky... but she was. First, she had been stupid, and naïve, thinking that getting someone killed would be as easy as handing a stranger some money.

Jesus, he could have easily killed her by now. No one would even know where to look for her body... But she had gotten lucky. Now she knew the truth, and she'd be damned if she became his next meal.

"What are you gonna do Bella, what the fuck are you gonna do?" she muttered to herself while flagging down a taxi (no way was she walking back to the bar alone).

She couldn't go to the police - he still had that recording - bastard! He was obviously more dangerous than anyone she had ever dealt with, so she didn't entertain any notions of being able to defend herself. Physical force would not help her; she would have to find some other way to keep herself alive.

Think... come on, think!

She didn't sleep that night, and armed the alarm system as soon as she walked into the house, something she never did otherwise. Keeping all the lights on, she spent the night hunched over her laptop, searching for any information she could find on the modern vampire.

She would figure this out. She would not let the fucker get the best of her. She would figure something out.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Hello my adoring public! Life has taught me some important lessons since we last met, and I would like to share them with you now:

1) If your AC adaptor isn't functioning properly, don't keep using it. It might fry your motherboard, and then you might have to drop 1k on a new laptop, delaying your work and hobbies in the meantime.

2) If you have tendinitis, don't bike 30 miles on the second ride of the season.

3) Fan fic readers, especially those who pm you with a detailed interpretation of your story, are the BEST! Seriously, huge thanks to everyone who has left a review. I absolutely love to hear from you readers, so keep it up!! My ego loves you...

One more thing. Thanks as always to my twilighted beta Twilightzoner. Also, a special thanks this week to angelvamp, who has been guest beta-ing since chapter 6, and made my totally hot new banner on . Go check it out!

Now, on with the show...

**********

Thursday evening found Edward on a bench in Lincoln Park, a second edition of Jack London's _White Fang _resting in his lap. He had developed a habit of coming here, particularly on those evenings when he felt most carefree. The scenery was pleasant enough, but it was the congregation of fellow city-dwellers that most effectively lured him out of his habitual solitude.

His latest methods of acquiring human blood brought him into contact with people on a regular basis now, but the interactions were hardly satisfying. Those individuals who sought out the services of a hitman were most often the very people he had come to despise. They had every opportunity for a virtuous and joyful life, yet they chose to waste it on trivial rivalries, false righteousness and materialistic pursuits of the most disgusting kind. Such carelessness! Each life, begun as a blank slate, would end corrupted, squandered by its own steward. Ah well. He had no power to change his "clients'" desires and motivations – he could, however, put some of their bodies to good use.

The greatest shame was that his own needs fettered him to the company of these scoundrels, and he yearned for some spiritual counterweight. Thus, when his thirst was minimal, he liked to surround himself with people of the opposite moral character, or at least, he liked to think of them as such. Surely some of these people were fundamentally good, and it brought some comfort, some balance to his life to be among them: Parents playing with their children, lovers reveling in each other's company, or someone enjoying the simple pleasures of the sky, the grass, and a favorite book.

On this night, however, the park itself proved particularly disarming. The sounds, but especially the scents in the air, were a kaleidoscope of stimuli. The sweetness of summer grass, the freshness of the water, the individual odors of people and their pets, even the food that they were eating, all of this was pleasant to inhale. He had eaten recently, really eaten, and now his senses were at their peak. It would continue this way for a several more weeks before his body depleted whatever metabolic ferment he had just recharged. For now, it was enough to simply sit here and feel _whole._

Human blood was his elixir; abstinence not only robbed him of his physical strength, it eroded the unique functions of his body until it was nearly like that of a human. Only it wasn't a neutral transformation - each cycle of malnutrition felt a little bit like dying. First his vision would begin to dim, then his hearing and sense of smell. Even the tactile functions of his nervous system would fade, until his very skin felt like it was disappearing.

He wondered sometimes what it would feel like to fade away inside the shell of one's own body. To know that the blood and bone and sinew still held their shape, even after the mind was severed. To be completely alone, in infinite darkness, while the body drifted somewhere in the world, a vessel without its navigator.

He would never get to find out - self-imposed starvation was not a choice he could make. Wait long enough, and all ability to reason would vanish; he would pounce on the first person he could find. Hunting other animals could delay the need, but not erase it. Intervals between human meals were now a race against time to find the next acceptable victim. Most of the time, he had a target lined up, and could placate his conscience... Most of the time.

Tonight, however, he was free of such concerns. He now had not one, but two meals lined up, and if he timed it properly, his dietary dilemma was moot for nearly three more months. He would meet with potential clients if any tried to contact him, but the matter wasn't nearly as urgent, and could be shelved for the time being.

Stretching, he shifted in his seat, and leaned his head against the back of the bench. There was a light breeze blowing off the lake, and it rippled the hair on his head and arms. He breathed it in, savoring the flavors it carried. It was refreshing, delightful really, to be out in the world like this. He was sated and feared no temptation. Even the scent of fresh blood would not be unmanageable right now, though that would not last much longer.

His thoughts turned to Bella then, and the cuts on her arms that had nearly driven him into a frenzy the last time they had met. Someone would have to tell that girl to use bandages the next time she met a vampire indoors. He smiled to himself at that thought, but, in all seriousness, she didn't know how lucky she had been. Had he not spent years learning to manage his thirst, she might not have left his sight alive.

Bella. He fell yet again to musing over her situation. Her case was, without question, unique among the others he had been presented with. It might have seemed amazing that, out of the hundred-odd people he had met in the guise of hitman, she would be the first to have justice unambiguously on her side. Yet, this was the case, and he was relieved to the core to not have to struggle over his conduct, to agonize over who deserved his teeth more, the client or the target. If her version of events was correct, as he was now certain it was, then the men she wanted dead undoubtedly earned their fate, and he would enjoy delivering it to them.

But it wasn't just the job he thought about. The girl herself was worth pondering. As much as she tried to project otherwise, she was a mess. Both times he had seen her, her body had been in a continuous state of tension and not just from fear of him. He was now sure that neither eating nor sleeping came easily to her, and she wasn't particularly adept at handling her temper either. Most significantly, she was a cutter, which spoke volumes about her mental fragility. The scars he had seen weren't more than a year old, and he guessed that it was a relatively new habit, and all of this evidence suggested that she had not recovered from the trauma of her sister's death. In that case, he guessed his main purpose was to provide some closure. Only he didn't understand how he could. Justice and fairness aside, how did two more deaths undo the harm of the first? Bella was suffering, that much was clear, and to the extent that he admired human happiness, he regretted the lack of it in her life. Yet, he understood so little of what that happiness really was; the problem of restoring it under such trying circumstances as hers baffled him.

He wanted to learn about her life beyond all of this ugliness. There had to be more to her than her sister's death. He wanted to see her again, to talk to her. No business, just... a chat. Maybe some coffee. People seemed to like having conversations over coffee. But he laughed at these thoughts, as well as himself. Was he really going to call her and see if she wanted to meet again, for no particular reason? What would he say? Hello, this is the hitman you hired. Can I take you out for coffee?

Not very likely.

Reluctantly, he turned to his book, and sought distraction in the story of wild wolves and the Klondike.

* * *

Her phone began to ring. She ignored it, too absorbed in the text in front of her to bother with whoever was trying to reach her. It stopped, but only for a few minutes, after which the damn thing started to ring again.

She glared at it. It was probably Eric from the bike shop. She'd better answer, at least tell someone that she wasn't coming in. She was a no show yesterday, and Angela was certainly pissed. Summer was the wrong season to skip shifts, as the shop was packed all day long. Still, she couldn't handle work right now. Not after everything that had happened. Besides, she'd hardly be of any use. No sleep two nights ago, three hours the night before – not a good time to be around tools and moving machinery.

She put aside her laptop and reached down to grab the phone off the floor. Yup, it had been Eric. She punched in the number for the shop and considered the most convincing story to tell her coworkers.

"Johnny Sprockets, this is Eric."

"Hey Eric, it's Bella. Listen, I feel like shit. I think whatever I've been fighting off all week just sucker-punched me in the face."

"Oh, sorry dude. You okay?"

"Not really, I spent the night puking. Some stomach virus probably. Just need to lay low for a while, and I'll be fine."

"Sure man, take your time, take your time. You need anything? Some chow or something? I could swing by after my shift -"

"No no, I'm good. Definitely. Couldn't keep anything down right now anyway, but thanks. Will you tell Angela?"

"Yeah, of course, don't worry about it. Feel better."

"Thanks Eric, you rock."

"You got it. Later."

"Bye."

She turned off the phone and tossed it down, standing up from the couch. Her legs were stiff and her eyes felt sore from staring at the screen for so long. She was exhausted and frustrated as hell. No one seemed to know a damn thing about vampires – how was that even possible? She'd spent nearly 36 straight hours pouring over newspaper archives, police bulletins, even conspiracy theory blogs, and still nothing. Well, plenty of rumors and speculation, along with some bullshit safety propaganda, but nothing of any _use_. If she wasn't feeling so frantic, she might have found the whole thing interesting, in an "Unsolved Mysteries" sort of way.

Vampires had been around for quite a while – even ignoring the medieval legends, accounts of bodies drained of blood (exsanguinated was the proper term, apparently) dated as far back as written records themselves. Yet, there were surprisingly few of these events in modern times; either the vampire population was dwindling or getting better at covering their tracks. Most surprisingly, there were no reliable accounts of anyone actually coming in contact with a vampire, either alive or dead. The only evidence available was second hand. There were the bodies, the supposed sightings, and special profiles of brave and persevering FBI detectives, who, despite toiling away for many sleepless nights, had produced nothing. One year reporters would be quoting Special Agent Green as the expert on vampire-related crimes, then it would be Special Agent Berenbaum the next, and none of them had anything useful to say.

She took a few steps away from the couch, then back, trying to work out the restlessness that had settled into her joints. She looked at her laptop again, then shook her head and turned to the kitchen. She needed a snack or a drink or something. She needed a distraction.

This was bad. Really bad. She still had no idea what to do. The initial panic had worn off once she convinced herself that she had some time to come up with a plan. The hitman – the vampire – had said he wouldn't get kill Taylor and Pelzer for another few weeks, and he would probably want to take her money for a job well done before he... anyway.

The only thing she had thought to do so far was to copy the video off her phone and burn it onto a few CDs. She wasn't sure what she would do with them yet, but it seemed like a good idea.

She wandered over to the pantry and pulled out a jar of peanut butter and some crackers. A loud yawn interrupted her chewing, and she leaned against the counter heavily. Some coffee could help, but caffeine was a bad idea given how anxious she already felt. What she really wanted was a stiff drink, something to mellow out her nerves, except she was so exhausted that it would probably knock her out, and she couldn't go to sleep yet.

"Aha," she muttered through a mouth-full of peanut butter and saltines. "Spiked coffee it is."

* * *

James Pelzer was gone. It took Edward a few days to figure out what had happened, and he was angry with himself for not keeping a more careful watch. He'd gotten too relaxed, complacent, and now the man had left town. Apparently, James Pelzer, Sr. was terminally ill, and the son had traveled to his parents' home in Mexico to begin settling his father's affairs. Edward had no idea when he was supposed to return. If he'd been more vigilant, he might have been able to get his hands on the man's travel plans, and at least have a clue of when he would be back, but now he knew nothing.

On the whole, this new development wasn't devastating, but it meant that he would have to wait for James Pelzer's return before taking any action. He could kill the other one first, but James might spook and stay away even longer. Tracking him to Mexico was possible, but crossing the border would not be a trivial affair. Though he could probably find out where the man had been headed, his fake passport, though of decent quality, was always a risk to use. No, all in all, it was best to settle in and wait. He would keep better tabs on Pat Taylor in the meantime, and get his hands on James Pelzer's email and credit card statements.

And he would tell Bella. She should know. He had given her a time frame after all, and it would be poor business etiquette not to inform her of this setback. Yes, very poor. He should definitely call her and let her know.

Except that her phone seemed to be off. He called once, twice, five times – straight to voice mail. Well, he could hardly leave a message about something like this, it was too... impersonal.

_Impersonal?_ he thought to himself. _No, too _dangerous_. You don't leave voice mail about your work when it involves murder._

At any rate, he would have to tell her in person. He knew where she worked - oddly enough, the bar was quite close to the site of his most recent dinner – and he had even been by there once, just out of curiosity. She hadn't seen him, of course; he didn't even go in. Just paused by the window, caught a glimpse of her behind the counter...

He couldn't meet her there, nor at the cycling shop – this was not a discussion to have in public. Since she wasn't answering her phone, he would have to go to her house. As odd as it would be to arrive unannounced, he really had no choice. As already established, he couldn't _not_ tell her; she would want to know. Yes, he repeated to himself, she would want to know. So he would go to her house, and tell her. Then he would leave. And that would be all. Of course, if the conversation happened to stray to any other topics... well, that would be all right too.

* * *

Saturday night, he stood at her doorstep, sweating so much that he had to wipe his hand against his clothes before ringing the door bell. It chimed back instantly and he flinched. Good lord, when was the last time he had felt this nervous? He was beyond his human memories now – the stochastic flashes had tapered off a few years ago – but this would have been the perfect trigger for yet another bout of adolescent angst and melodrama.

He shifted his weight, and peeked into one of the narrow windows on either side of the door frame. The area just beyond the door was dark, but there was light emanating from another room farther in. He stepped back and wiped his hands on his shirt again. Maybe she wasn't home and left the light on to ward off any would-be burglars. No, he shook his head, then she would have left the lights on in the front of the house. Besides, he could hear something, a television or radio, so maybe it was on too loud for her to have heard him, or maybe the doorbell only rang out in the front rooms.

He ran a hand through his hair, then knocked loudly on the door. No answer. He listened for the sounds of any movement and knocked again. Then, before he could really think the motion through, he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted.

To his great surprise, it was unlocked, and the door swung open. Feeling somewhat foolish, he peered in and called out a hello. Music was blaring from some inner room. She probably couldn't hear him over all that noise. Well, he was already in the house and on a very important errand, so... He stepped forward and closed the door behind him.

He stood in a foyer, which was empty and dark. There was a staircase in front of him, leading up to a balcony hallway, lined with several doors. Thresholds to his left and right led to more empty space, though the windows in each room were still adorned with drapes. The wooden floors were bare, and clusters of dust hugged the trim and corners. He wrinkled his nose. A short hallway took him past the stair case, then veered left into a kitchen that opened into a large room beyond. This one contained some furniture: a futon and a television faced each other in the center of the floor. A corner floor lamp illuminated the room, though the futon stood with its back to him, and he couldn't see if it held an occupant. The television was off, but two large speakers on either side of it vibrated with some variant of electronic music that made him cringe. It wasn't too loud for human ears, but his hearing was nearly overwhelmed. Nonetheless, he walked forward through the kitchen, then down two wooden steps into this room, which he guessed was meant to serve as the den.

"Hello? Bella? It's Edward..." he trailed off, not knowing what else to say. He approached the futon from one side and stopped abruptly when his gaze landed on bare feet. They rested against the cushion, gently curled toes nearly hanging off the edge. He took another soundless step forward and took in the scene. Bella lay in front of him, sound asleep. She was on her side, one arm hanging off the couch, the other folded under her neck. Hair spilled over her face, obscuring everything but parted lips and the gentle curve of her chin. She was wearing some form of sleepwear – thin cotton pants and a tank top (is that what it was called?), and he suddenly felt very indecent to be standing there, watching her like this.

He said her name again, louder, but she only stirred and rolled over onto her stomach, burying her face in a cushion. A new song had started, and it was louder and even more obnoxious than the last. He grimaced and crossed the room to the speakers, determined to turn the blasted things off. The source of music, as he could now see, was somewhere under the sleeping girl next to him, so he simply pulled the plug out of the wall and breathed a sigh of relief when the speakers fell silent. Turning back, his eyes landed on several books that were strewn about between him and the couch. Curious, he reached for the nearest one.

"Vampires: Myth or Menace?" Huh. How amusing. He had read this book decades before, back when he was still trying to learn something about his new life, and had found it absurdly ill-informed. Funny, that she would now be reading it too... He picked another book from the pile. "Vampire Legends in Contemporary American Culture." Well, she wouldn't learn anything useful out of that one either.

Wait.

Stiffening, he grabbed at the three books that remained in front of him. "Vampires and Vampirism," "Vampires: The Occult Truth," and finally "Vampires Among Us."

He jerked to his feet and the books tumbled out of his hands, landing on the wooden floor with three separate thumps.

She knew. _She knew?? _

For a moment he stood rigid, rooted to the flooring, as his mind worked frantically to make sense of what he was seeing. In his gut, he felt a desperate, furious urge to destroy the threat this sleeping girl now embodied. He wanted to lunge at her. To snap her neck, to rip out her trachea, to keep her _silent_. He knew he could do it; he could move so quickly that she'd be dead before she took her next breath. He bared his teeth, fingers tightening at his sides, but something else reared up in protest.

_Wait, _it urged,_ just wait_._ Think. Plan your actions. _

Did she really know the truth? Could this not be the evidence of some phase or hobby, completely independent of him? And if she did know or suspect something, then what, exactly? Was he willing to kill her on suspicion, without any proof of real danger? Would he throw his principles away so easily?

The feral creature within howled and snarled against this uncertainty. _Kill it, protect yourself, avoid exposure - kill her!_

Still he hesitated, muscle straining against muscle. He could leave. Think everything through. Determine the extent of danger first, then act.

Bella shifted again, rolling onto her back. The skin on her neck and cheeks was bright red, flushed from the heat of the night.

He should leave. He began to move away from the futon, forcing his feet back toward the kitchen. All the while, his instincts raged at him, demanding to be obeyed - _turn around and kill her! - _but he shook his head. He would not heed them. He was more than just the sum of these parts.

So he forced himself back, shifting his gaze away from her prone, defenseless form. He had barely taken three steps when she opened her eyes and began to scream.

Startled, he jumped back into a crouch. Bella had pulled herself up into a tangle of limbs, throwing her weight against the back of the futon. She stared at him with wild eyes while scrambling away, tumbling over the arm of the couch and onto the floor. She slipped and nearly fell, catching herself with palms splayed out against the floorboards, and scuttled awkwardly toward the kitchen. And she kept screaming – chocking, rasping shrieks that burst out of her throat and bored into his ears.

"Stop, stop it!" he shouted as she lunged at the counter that separated the kitchen from the den, grabbing a half-empty liquor bottle.

"Get away!" she bellowed back. Alcohol was pouring down her forearm from the upturned bottle that she now brandished for defense. Gin, from the smell of it.

"Stop," he repeated, forcing more composure into his voice. He held his hands up in what he hoped was a disarming gesture and straightened slowly.

"Get the fuck away from me!" She swung the bottle at the counter with all her might as though to break it, but the impact only cracked the thick green glass. She grimaced, her breath whistling through clenched teeth, and took two steps back, throwing a glance over her shoulder. He followed her eyes back to the knife block next to the sink.

"Wait, don't!" he urged. Knives slicing through the air would only make this worse. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"Shut up!" she hissed, thrusting the useless bottle at him, and he bit back a laugh despite himself. Her eyes narrowed, as panic began to make room for anger. "You're so full of shit!"

He shook his head. "This isn't what you think. I'm not -"

"I know why – what you -" she faltered, and the bottle in her hand slumped down for a moment before she tightened her grip again. "You're here to kill me."

"No. No, not at all! I'm sorry, I should not have come inside, but the door was open, and I had to tell you -" he broke off, aware of how idiotic his earlier reasoning now seemed.

"Shut up, shut up!" she cried. "Don't bother with the fucking lies, I know what you are!"

He stepped back. "You don't understand. Listen to me -"

"No, NO! I saw you, I saw you kill that woman! I saw _how_ you killed that woman, I _know_!"

He shut his mouth with a snap. This was making much more sense now. "You followed me," he guessed, but she only stared back, her chest heaving. He looked away and nodded his head in understanding.

"It was you. I smelled... something. I smelled smoke and alcohol and garbage. I thought you were just some drunk..." he muttered nearly to himself. Then he looked up at her, and she flinched back.

"Look, I know what you saw, and I understand now what you must think of me, but I'm afraid you've drawn an erroneous conclusion from the -" he broke off to dodge the bottle that now spun at his head. It hit the wall behind him and shattered, and he ducked under the burst of glass.

Bella darted away from him then, bare feet flashing against the white tile of the kitchen floor. He followed her down the hallway and into the foyer, becoming exasperated with her refusal to see reason. Frantically, she fumbled for the front door handle, which he had left unlocked, and flung it open.

"Bella, wait!" he demanded again, reaching for her arm just as her feet hit the cement steps of the porch. His fingers closed around her wrist, and she shrieked again, a sound of pure panic, twisting back to jerk herself out of his grasp. Taken aback by the ferocity of her struggle, he thought better of trying to restrain her and let go.

Too late, he realized his mistake. She had been pulling against his grip, throwing all of her weight back to free her arm, and when he let her go, she staggered backwards, missed the step behind her feet, and fell.

He lunged for her then, but missed - his reflexes were always the first to diminish. Her head hit the cement walkway with a sickening crack and she lost consciousness. Cursing, he rushed down to her, gingerly lifting her shoulders off the ground. Her head slumped forward, and he could already smell the blood oozing out of a nasty gash on the back of her skull. He glanced up, but the street was deserted.

He could leave her here, in the dead of the night, and let her bleed out onto the front lawn. He could pull her body around back and suck the blood out of the wound until it was dry. He could snap her neck and dump the body in a dumpster.

He could solve this problem so easily...

But he didn't. Instead, he slipped an arm under her waist, lifted her up off the ground, and walked back into the house.

***********

End notes:

**We've been nominated, we've been nominated!!! ** If you want to absolutely, totally make my day, please consider** voting for this story on the Indie TwiFic Award**s. It has been nominated in two categories: Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP. The URL is here : /

**Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**********

A/N:

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed!

Also thanks to Twilightzoner, my Twilighted beta extraordinaire, and angelvamp, who's been beta-ing in RL and also made my banner on . I'm buying both of you a piz**za.**

**And to everyone who has voted for this story at the Indie Twific Awards**. Was that you? Was it? Are you sure? Here's the URL, just in case.

/ Look for it in Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP.

**Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)**

Ok, on to the show!

**********

Edward found a bag of frozen corn in the freezer, but had to search all three bathrooms in the house for disinfectant and bandages. These were upstairs in a drawer under the sink next to a small black leather case, something one would expect to find a manicure set inside of. He grabbed it as well, thinking that scissors might be useful if he needed to cut the gauze to size.

After rushing back into the house, he had laid Bella down on the futon, then went in search of first aid supplies. Now, he decided to unfold the frame to give her more room to lie comfortably. She was still unconscious and did not stir as he set her onto the floor. He sought to avoid touching her head, knowing that it was still bleeding, but her tousled hair brushed against his forearm when he picked her back up, leaving behind a feathery crimson stain. The futon frame creaked under its load as he emptied his arms none too gently, and Bella groaned faintly, but he was already at the kitchen sink, scrubbing her blood off his skin.

Dressing the wound proved quite challenging. Nevermind the blood or the sudden discomfort he felt at touching this woman without her knowledge (she was barely even dressed!), but her hair kept getting in the way as he tried to clean and bandage the cut. He'd lifted her head and shoulders onto his lap, and ended up pouring half the bottle of peroxide over himself before enough of the fluid landed on the wound itself. Oddly enough, as the white foam began to bubble on her skin and hair, it seemed to alter the scent of the blood, masking its most intoxicating components. The effect was quite welcome but proved temporary, and as the reaction between blood and peroxide ran its course, he hurried to splash more disinfectant on her head while fumbling for the bandages.

Here he encountered an even bigger problem because the medical tape he had intended to secure the gauze with would not stick to her hair. He tore off one piece, then two, even tried to wrap an entire strip around the perimeter of her head, but it would not hold the pads of gauze in place with sufficient pressure. Frustrated, he pulled the tape off with a jerk and earned a whimper for his impatience. Bella stirred in his lap, then moaned as she dragged her head away from him, rubbing raw skin against the coarse fabric of his pants.

He had to hurry and put some distance between them. She was waking up, and would not take kindly to this arrangement. He needed some cloth or ribbon tie around her head, but what? A dishtowel would work, but there weren't any when he had tried to dry his hands earlier. There might have been something more suitable upstairs, but Bella was shifting constantly now, her complaints becoming louder and more strained.

Well, there was one thing he could use. He moved her back onto the mattress, pulled off his t-shirt and reached for the black leather case. Expecting to find scissors, he was perplexed to see that it held only razor blades. There were about half a dozen, some shiny and new, others dull and water-stained. Frowning, he lifted the case up to his face and sniffed, confirming his suspicion immediately. The razors smelled of blood and peroxide, and he had no doubt of their purpose. For some reason, the discovery was upsetting , so he zipped the case shut and tossed it to the floor. Fingering the hem of his shirt, he tore off a strip that came out less even than he would have liked, but would do the job well enough.

He then took several pieces of gauze and taped the edges to the fabric with medical tape. Taking full advantage of his superhuman speed, he wrapped the whole thing around Bella's head in less than a second, taking care to cover the cut with gauze completely. She had quieted down, but now grimaced again as he tied the two ends of the fabric together at her forehead. Having dressed the wound, he slid the bag of frozen corn under her head and stepped away, hoping it did not make too uncomfortable of a pillow for now. She flinched against the cold but did not wake.

He settled on the floor in a corner of the room. He would stay here for a while to make sure that she was all right, that the cut stopped bleeding and clotted properly. That is, if she didn't wake up and throw him out of her house.

* * *  
Bella stirred. Something was pulling her out of sleep, and not going about it very gently. Her limbs felt hot and heavy, but her head was cold, like it had been ducked in a bucket of ice water. And it hurt, it hurt like a motherfucker. The dull buzz was getting worse, solidifying into a pulsing, throbbing, stabbing pain that spread like spider webs along her skull.

She sucked in a sharp breath and opened her eyes. She saw darkness, and for a moment, had no idea where she was. Panicking, she tried to sit up, but that proved to be a mistake. The dark exploded into white and red flashes of pain, and her head hit the mattress before she even had time to realize that sitting up was, in fact, a terrible idea.  
Jesus Christ, what happened? She hadn't had much to drink the night before, just a few glasses of wine. This couldn't be a hangover - not even hell got this hung over. Slowly, she lifted an arm up to her head and began to probe for an explanation. Something was tied at her forehead like a bandanna, and she followed the cloth around to the back of her skull. Her fingers encountered a wet, cold bag between her head and the mattress, and she grabbed at it, intending to pull it away.

"I wouldn't move that if I were you," someone said quietly, and there was a flicker of movement against the far wall.

She recognized the voice. It was Edward. And they were both in her house. Why was he in her house?

Edward... vampire... her house. Suddenly, the events of the previous evening slammed into place, and the same fear she'd felt hours before ignited every muscle in her body. Again, she tried to pull herself up, grinding her teeth against the vice-like pain that shot through her skull.

"Don't do that!" he said quickly. "You'll only make it worse. I'm not going to hurt you. Lie back down."

She wanted to believe him. There was something soft and calming about his voice. But she had seen the consequences of that trust – the image of him hunched over that poor woman had barely left her thoughts since then. Gritting her teeth, she shifted up another few inches, one arm supporting her chest, the other gripping the mattress.

"Bella, please!" he said again with some frustration. "If I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it already. I've been here for the last three hours making sure you wouldn't bleed all over the furniture. You are about undo all of my efforts." When she still didn't move, he added, "I am just going to sit here. I won't move an inch toward you if you'd like. Please, just lie down."

She'd been holding her breath against the pain, and now her lungs were beginning to burn. She knew that even if she managed to stand, she wouldn't make it past the threshold. And to be fair – she was still alive. Slowly, cautiously, she let herself sink back onto the futon.

"What's under my head?"

"An ice pack. Frozen vegetables, actually. I couldn't find any ice in your freezer."

"And around my forehead?"

"My shirt."

"Your what?"

"I needed to make a bandage to stop the bleeding. Nothing else would hold." This he said matter-of-factly, almost defensively.

Bella didn't say anything. She was confused. They sat in the dark for a long moment, then she drew another ragged breath, pressing the heel of one hand against her temple. "How bad is it?" she asked, squeezing her eyes shut.

"It isn't trivial. The cut itself is nearly two inches long, and it is likely that you also suffered a concussion."

She didn't reply. The effort of getting up had made her nauseous, and now she concentrated on the rise and fall of her chest, breathing deeply to try and calm her stomach.

"Do you want some water?" he asked.

"No," she muttered. Then, "Yes."

He put something on the floor and stood up. She watched him warily, stiffening as he approached. He stopped and took two steps to the side, further away from her feet. "Bella, I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated softly, as if trying to convince a child.

She blinked at him, and he walked past. She heard him rummaging about in the kitchen, probably looking for the glasses. "Above the microwave," she tried to say, but her throat was so dry that it came out as a half-croak, half-whisper. He seemed to have heard her anyway and immediately opened another cabinet.

"Do you need something to eat?" his voice floated back from the kitchen.

"No," she whispered again. She heard him run the sink, and willed herself to remain calm as he walked back into the room. He handed the glass to her wordlessly, then stepped back toward the wall where he had been sitting. Lowering himself to the floor, he reached into a pocket, then hesitated.

"I assume you don't mind if I smoke?" he asked.

She sniffed the air, caught the traces of smoke already infusing the room. "You're worse than I am," she muttered.

"For entirely different reasons, I assure you," he answered, but did not elaborate.

He had been sitting in the far corner, his form entirely obscured by darkness. When the cigarette flared to life, it cast soft shadows across his face, highlighting the bone structure: A strong jaw tapering at a square chin, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, which looked much less hollow than when she had last seen him. He seemed to have filled out a little, gained a bit more roundness to his features. His skin was smooth, no trace of a beard, and, along with these softened lines, gave him a more youthful appearance. Whereas she would have guessed him to be in his mid thirties when she first met him, he now looked barely old enough to drink. His mouth was firm and his brow slightly furrowed, but there was something almost... gentle... to his expression. The unruly hair that hung from his forehead concealed his eyes, though she was sure that he was watching her.

She dropped her gaze and concentrated on drinking the water. Her head felt like lead, and she dreaded the idea of sitting up. Lowering the glass over the edge of the couch, she moved her face sideways toward the rim.

"Do you want help?" he asked, but she ignored him, clenching her jaw against the pain. She managed a few shaky sips, thought more liquid ended up on the floor than in her mouth. Still, the cold water soothed her throat, and after a moment her stomach seemed to calm a little, as well. She set the glass onto the floor, but kept her face turned toward the vampire in the corner.

"Why are you here?"

"I came to talk to you," he said simply. "Then you woke up and ran away. I felt somewhat responsible for your injuries, so I stayed help you recover."

"Somewhat responsible? You snuck into my house, scared the shit out of me, then dropped me down the stairs!" As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them; now was not the time to be a smart ass. She thought back to the woman in the alley and blinked furiously to clear the images from her mind.

"Yes," he was saying. "I did all of that, and I am sorry. I should not have entered uninvited."

The apology was unexpected. She wrinkled her brow. "How did you do that, anyway? I though you – uh...vampires," --she had to force the word out-- "couldn't come in uninvited."

He snorted. "That is patently false. An absurd idea, really. I imagine that most of the time a vampire enters a home, it is without invitation."

"You imagine? Don't you know?"

"No, I don't. My kind are not very social. I haven't had the opportunity to interview anyone about their visitation habits."

Was he mocking her? "Well, I'm sorry for being so ignorant about you and your kind," she muttered.

"You aren't anymore."

There was a long pause during which Bella searched furiously for something to say, but came up empty. It was Edward who spoke next. "There is something we need to discuss. Obviously, you are now aware of my true nature, and I do not deny your suspicions. You are mistaken about one thing, however. I did not come into your house to harm you. This has never been my intention."

"I don't believe you," she whispered.

"Fine. That is your choice. But consider that I have spent the last three hours continuously in your presence, and have done nothing but care for your injuries. If I had wanted to kill you, would this not have been the perfect time?"

"Maybe you're not very… hungry." Again the words felt stuck in her throat; she tried to take another sip of water, but the glass trembled in her hand. She set it back down, but couldn't take her eyes off of the water's rippling surface.

"You've been bleeding from the head for over one of the three hours that I have been here," he informed her. "I wouldn't need to be hungry to find that tempting. The fact that you are still alive is the greatest testament to my sincerity."

She looked up at him, confused and alarmed. "What?"

He sighed. "You don't appreciate, likely can't appreciate, the effort and willpower that is required of me to stay in this room with you while your blood seeps out of your body and into a piece of fabric ten feet away." He shook his head and swept the hair off his brow with a motion so quick that she barely saw his hand move. His eyes flashed in the darkness. "In fact, I wasn't able to, not for the entire time."

She blanched at his words, and her heart skipped a beat. "You mean you...drank from me?" she whispered, holding her breath.

"What? No! Don't be absurd," he snapped back. "If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation. No, I left the room. Several times, in fact. Oh, and" --he picked something up off the floor-- "I found this book to read in one of the rooms upstairs. I'll put it back later."

She exhaled slowly and turned her head back to stare at the ceiling. The absurdity of the situation hit her with full force, and she rubbed her temple again. The vampire hitman had spent the night playing nursemaid and catching up on his reading.

"As a matter of fact," he went on, "I am finding it quite interesting. I have to confess, I never put any stock in the various metaphysical justifications of moral behavior. This," he waved the book at her, "suggests a much more satisfying explanation."

She didn't know what book he was talking about, and didn't care. "Look, why are you still here? If it's so damn difficult to resist, why haven't you killed me?"

"I don't want to."

"Why not?" Jesus, did she really just ask him that?

"Because I don't. It isn't merely a question of physical desire."

"I don't understand. What does that even mean?"

"It means that life isn't nearly as simple as you'd like to believe." His tone was cold, distant.

She huffed and closed eyes. "Look, you have to give me a little more than that to go on. You keep acting like I should trust you, but I don't even know what you're talking about." And I watched you kill someone.

Edward didn't reply for a long time, just sat there and smoked. "I need to eat," he said finally. "My diet has specific constraints that are beyond my control. I could try to avoid feeding on humans, and I have, but complete abstinence is not sustainable. I have spent years analyzing, even agonizing over this problem. My solution is imperfect, but it is probably the most just."

A dead silence hung between them. "What solution?" Bella asked quietly.

"My needs are ultimately selfish, benefiting no one but myself. Thus, I only take the lives of those who act in kind, who kill other people for some personal profit."

"Like other hitmen?"

"That is one option, but they are not so easy to find. The benefit of my current profession is that potential candidates do the work of identifying themselves for me."

Current profession? "What did you do before?"

"I was not so -" here he paused and have her a sideways glance, "- discerning."

It took a moment for his words to sink in. "So you'd kill anybody."

"Yes."

"Random people on the street."

"Yes."

"Then you don't really care about justice."

"I do now. As I just said, I only -"

"I heard you," she cut him off. "But that's not what you should be doing."

His eyebrows arched in surprise. "Oh?" he prompted, the cigarette in his mouth twitching.

"You're saying it's fair to kill killers, right? That it's just?"

He nodded.

She closed her eyes. "Then you should look in the mirror."

Silence. Her head throbbed.

Then he said, "You are very clever," but his voice held no praise, only bitterness. "You're asking me why I don't commit suicide. Why I don't just rid myself and society of this problem, right? Right?"

"Yes," she breathed out. The shift in his tone sent shivers down her spine.

"I can't. I am not a man, I am a vampire. I can't make the same choices as you."

"What happens when you try?" she blurted out.

Here he looked away and shook his head. "You don't understand. Look, everything you do – almost everything you do – is a conscious choice, made rationally, where your mind weighs the consequences and selects a course of action having taken all of your desires into consideration. Even when you behave irrationally, you are the active agent, and given enough willpower, could carry out even the most difficult or unpleasant actions. War is a perfect example – men and women willingly forfeit their lives for the sake of some greater metaphysical principle. You understand?"

She nodded.

"I cannot behave like that. My rational mind is only second to my instincts. I have worked harder than you can imagine to rectify that balance, but mastery over my most primitive urges has proven impossible. No matter how miserable the constraints of this life make me, I cannot relieve myself of them. Survival will trump sentiment every time."

She stopped trying to filter her curiosity. "Is that how it is for the others like you?"

"I don't know. As I said, I don't socialize with other vampires. My strong suspicion is that there aren't very many of us at all, and that most have done a better job of remaining hidden than I. Furthermore, I believe that I am somewhat unique in my ethical struggles. From the information I have managed to collect, other attacks seem fairly random in timing, location, and type of victim. And there are virtually no other reports of attacks on non-human animals. I could be mistaken of course, but I suspect that if there were other vampires like me, those who have also become ambivalent about their nature, it would have become obvious by now."

He was being cryptic again, but she didn't dare press him for an explanation. "How long have you been so... ambivalent?" she asked instead.

"Nearly one decade," he replied.

Bella didn't say anything else for a long moment, trying to get a handle on everything he was telling her. "So, what about that woman, the one from Wednesday night?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't betray the dread swirling around in the pit of her stomach.

"Lilian Schwartz. Senior Consultant at Accenture. What about her?" He wasn't making this any easier.

"Why her?"

"Leonard Schwartz. Associate Professor of Biochemistry at DePaul University. Excessive life insurance policy, which his ex-wife remains the beneficiary of. He was struck and killed by a car last weekend at the corner of East Elm and Division. As you may have overheard, it was no accident." His voice was steady and cold. He took another long drag from his cigarette, flicking ash onto the floor.

"She had him killed for the life insurance policy? That's so -"

"Cliche?" he offered.

"Fucked up! Disgusting and fucked up."

He shrugged. "Perhaps now you can understand my lack of remorse."

She still wasn't sure if she understood anything. She took a deep breath, suddenly wishing that she could just go back to sleep and deal with all of this later.

"You, however," he went on, "have nothing to fear from me. I am convinced that what you told me about your sister is the truth, and your request is only fair. When everything is said and done, you will remain the most innocent party in all of this."

Before she could reply, he said suddenly "That reminds me. I came here last night to tell you that James Pelzer has left the country. He is in Mexico, and it isn't clear how long he will remain there. While I could kill the other man first, I believe it would be best to wait until they are both back in Chicago. If they die in a mugging or a house fire, it seems far less suspicious than if the death of one here is followed by the death of another in Mexico. But, as I said, I don't know when that can happen, so it is likely that you will have to wait longer than I initially told you."

She turned back to look at him and blinked several times. "That's all you came to tell me?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes. I decided it was important for you to know." It could have been her imagination, but he sounded apologetic.

"Important," she repeated. "Okay, now I know."

The shaft of his cigarette had burned down to the filter, and he stuffed it out on the tip of one shoe.

"Hey, how come you smoke, anyway?" she asked suddenly.

"What do you mean?"

"Well..." she hesitated, out of embarrassment rather than fear. "I mean, I don't know how any of this works but... From everything I've been reading, you're supposed to be – uh – well, breathing isn't something you - "

"You're asking whether or not I am the walking undead?" Edward asked with a hint of mirth.

"Uh... yeah."

He made a sound, and she thought he was clearing his throat until he spoke again, laughter coloring his voice. "No, as far as I can tell, I am just as alive as you. I smoke because it is useful for blocking out other odors. That is why I began, though I have to confess, I am also addicted to nicotine at this point."

"Huh. That's why you've been smoking so much tonight... because of my..."

"Blood, yes."

She nodded absently and slowly took another sip of water. Her head was still pounding, and it was getting harder to think straight. She wanted to let all of this new information sink in before deciding what to make of it.

"You are tired," he observed, shifting. "I should go. I don't think my presence is necessary any longer. Just don't fall asleep on the ice pack."

"Okay," she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.

"There is one more thing I want to say," he added, then hesitated.

She turned to him again. "Yeah?"

"I want to remind you that I have recorded our previous conversations and there is plenty of material to expose the nature of our agreement. I have told you quite a bit about myself today, and I did it with the intention of allaying any fears you may have regarding my intentions for you. However, if you choose to expose me in any way, I will not hesitate to do the same. Remember, in the eyes of society, you have hired a vampire to kill two innocent men, one of whom used to be a police officer. However I would suffer at the hands of the law, you would not fare much better. Thus, I urge you to consider your actions carefully."

She clenched her jaw, and not from pain this time. "Get out of my house."

"Bella, I am not trying to threaten you, but you need to understand-"

"I fucking heard you. Just– get out!"

He jerked to his feet and gave her a long look. She glared back defiantly.

"Fine," he said sharply, and swept out of the room.

********

End Notes

Did ya like it? Did ya did ya did ya?? Please let me know, I absolutely love hearing back from you readers :)

Also, the next update will take a little longer because I'm thinking about rewriting chapters 1 and 2. It's something I've been wanting to do for a while, and I think I know how.

**We've been nominated! ** Commission has been nominated for "Favorite Darkward" at the Bellie Awards (.), and "Best Alternate Universe, WIP" category at the Indie TwiFic Awards ().

With each award, Commission will only get on the ballot if it's one of the top 4 or 5 to be nominated in that category. So, if you like what you've read,** please take a minute to nominate **the story for either or both awards. (Or some other award, if you're so inclined :) )


	9. Chapter 9

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A/N

OMG - it's been, like for-EVER! The thing is, I've actually been writting as much as ever, but there's quite a beta backlog at the moment, and 3 out of the last 5 weeks have been taken up with rewriting chapters 1 and 2. Speaking of which... this story now has a brand new, written almost entirely from scratch introduction, in which I have tried to make Edward's journey to awareness a bit more visceral and immediate. I would LOVE to know what you guys think of it. It seems like some readers liked the beginning of the story as it was, while others found it quite difficult to get through.

Have I made it worse? Have I made it better? Your opinion would be grately appreciated.

As for this chapter... it's a little on the short side, but I didn't want to leave you all waiting any longer for an update. In fact, I would have loved some way of getting touch with everyone who has this story on alert to let you know how things are going and pitch a few teasers your way. Then I realized that I could just start a forum thread to that end - ha! So, as soon as the nice admins register me for the forums, there will be a Commission thread. Stop by and say hi :)

Ok ok, longest A/N ever! Almost done. Just wanted to give a shout out to Twilightzoner, who has a lot of real life craziness on her plate, and still found the time to read and beta this chapter, and the new chapters 1 and 2. Thanks TZ!!!

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"I need two gin and tonics, an amaretto sour, a jack and coke, and two screwdrivers." Jessica the waitress slid an order slip across the bar impatiently.

Bella didn't reply, continuing to assemble the drinks in front of her with the semi-automatic precision of a seasoned bartender.

"Um, hello? Anybody home? I need this order pronto!" Jessica slapped her hand down on the counter, then jerked it back with a howl as Bella slid a full pitcher of beer in its place.

"And I need you to get out of my face,_ pronto_. In case you've gone dumb _and_ blind, I've got two orders ahead of you and a packed counter. Back off and wait your turn."

Jessica scowled, but Bella had already turned away to a new customer. On another day, she might have drawn the interaction out longer – knocking Jessica off her pedestal was usually worth the effort. However, she was in no mood for it tonight, on her first day back. Her head still throbbed, and for once, the music blaring throughout the bar seemed loud and oppressive. She could have stayed home again – the manager just about ordered her to. But she knew the bar was short-staffed lately, so Bill didn't put up much of a fight when she insisted. It was a good thing, too, because tonight, the place was packed, and there were only four servers for the entire restaurant - herself, Jessica, Jake, who'd worked here longer than she had, and a new kid – Travis or Taylor or something – who kept spilling drinks and tried to flirt with her when asking for replacements.

The restaurant itself was small – barely over 1000 square feet – and the bar took up the bulk of that space. Its wooden counter formed a square in the center of the room, and on nights like these, customers crowded around to fill in every available inch. Metal bar stools with red vinyl covers surrounded three of its four sides, while tall, round tables lined the wood-paneled walls. The storefront was one long window, and in the summer months, its panes were always open to the sidewalk, bringing in all the clamor of Wrigleyville's nightlife and a welcome breeze.

Jake brushed past her, squeezing over to the ice and soda machine on this side of the counter. "Jesus, it's packed tonight!" he muttered over the noise, dropping ice cubes into several tall glasses in front of him. "You know, I don't mind baseball – really, I don't. If people want to pay their hard-earned money to sit in on spit-covered benches and drink Bud Lite for three hours at a time, that's fine by me. But do they all have to come here afterwards? Shouldn't they be passed out in a gutter somewhere or throwing up heavily processed meat and cheese products into their own toilets?"

"Hey, you're preaching to the choir," she said, sliding several beer glasses under the tap. "But don't you men have some sort of sports gene to blame for all this?"

"Well babe, _I_ wouldn't know anything about it." He turned to face her, three soda-filled glasses in each hand. "Any sports gene unlucky enough to end up in my body was crushed into submission by all the gay genes long before I hit puberty."

Bella let out a laugh and shook her head.

"Aha! So she _does _remember how to laugh!" Jake said, winking, and stepped out onto the floor with raised arms to protect his liquid cargo.

Still smirking, she grabbed Jessica's order slip off the counter and reached for more glasses.

Later, as the crowds finally began to wane, she sat in the break room sipping a beer in one hand, and holding an ice pack against her forehead with the other. The back entrance to the bar was adjacent to this room, and she'd propped the door open to draw in a stronger breeze. Now, fresh air swirled around her, dancing along her skin and ruffling the fine hairs on her temples. The stress and adrenaline of the busy night were slowly oozing away, and though she was tired, damn near exhausted even, it felt good to be back at work. Job security aside, she needed a reason to be out of the house. To be away from _him._

The house was empty; it always was. But she didn't feel alone anymore. The air was thick, saturated with something heavy and foreign. Corners teemed with shadows, floorboards creaked under her feet, and every time the drapes rustled, her breath caught in her throat, one hand flying up to the small silver cross that now hung around her neck. The first night after he'd been there, she wouldn't turn her back on any doorways, facing the empty hallway instead of the bathroom sink and dripping toothpaste all over the floor like an idiot. She'd even slept with the lights on, and slept badly.

Two days after he'd left, she gathered her resolve and went upstairs to the second floor. He said hewent up here, but she couldn't remember why. Had he given himself the tour? _Touched_ anything?

She climbed slowly. The carpeted stairs felt odd under her bare toes – too yielding, too coarse. Growing up, the staircase had been bare, its wooden steps smooth and golden in the light. Then, a few years ago, her grandmother slipped and broke a hip, so Renee had the carpet put in. Not long after, Bella stopped coming up here.

The hallway closets seemed untouched, exhaling dust and a moth or two when she pulled their doors open. The linens and towels inside smelled stale, so she let them air out, moving on with the inspection. The doors to her and her mother's bedrooms wouldn't open without a push, but when she paused in front of the room at the end of hallway, a thin beam of sunlight blinked at her through the door frame.

This room? He had come into _this_ room? She reached for the door with an unsteady hand.

Of all the rooms in the house, this one had remained the most furnished - Bella just couldn't pack her sister away into another box. As the door swung open, her eyes drifted slowly over Alice's possessions - the bed, with its pink and yellow homemade quilt; a Polaroid collage of their childhood pets (all amphibious or belonging to the "rock" genus); the corner bookshelf, filled to the brim with literature, textbooks, gardening books, and even bodice-ripping romance novels of the mundane and paranormal variety. These Bella had teased her sister about mercilessly. That little Alice, with her degree in biochemistry and plans for a career in pharmaceutical research, would spend hundreds of dollars each year on books with bad renderings of Fabio on the cover was so ironic that it practically begged for an older sister's mockery.

The humor had long been lost, however - that morning, Bella stood in front of her sister's bookshelf with nothing but grief and anger in her belly. Her hand fluttered over the densely-packed titles until it came to rest at a thin gap in the popular science section. Here, the smoky layer of dust had been disturbed; finger-shaped smears traced their way from the missing book to the edge of the dark wooden shelf. Her own fingers curled into a fist at the sight, and she spun around, searching for further evidence of trespass.

The closet door was cracked open, too. She shoved it along its rollers with a grunt, wood slamming into drywall as it hit the wall. What did that sick bastard want with her sister's clothes? But there was no hint of any disturbance – bright, neatly-ironed fabrics peered back at her from their hangers, swinging softly with the impact of the door against the wall. An array of dress shoes lined the floor, and Bella's vision blurred at the sight of them, delicate and vibrant like their owner had been.

She turned away from the closet and fled. Down the stairs and out of the front door, she made it halfway down the block before a searing headache caught up with her and forced her back into the house. Curling up on the futon downstairs, she called Bill and asked to come into work that evening, then let the pain drag her into a restless sleep.

Six straight hours of pouring drinks later, exhaustion had done the trick. Taking her first break of the night, she was too tired to rehash the day, too tired to figure out how to get Alice's book back. She only knew that she would, and that was good enough for now.

Jake wandered through the doorway and slumped into the only other chair in the tiny room. She lifted her beer in greeting, shifting the ice to the back of her skull.

"What's with the ice?" he asked, leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed.

"I fell down some stairs."

"Shit. You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she nodded dismissively. "Just been getting these headaches the last few days. Ice helps."

He opened one eye and peered at her. "Is that why we didn't see you here this weekend?"

She shifted in her seat, then took a long swallow from her bottle. "Uh, yeah. Well, I had a stomach flu first. Puked for 24 hours straight, _then_ fell down the stairs." She forced out a laugh, then added, "Guess it's just not my week or something."

"Yeah, guess not," Jake replied, closing his eyes again. He was quiet for a while, before commenting, "Someone came by asking for you last night."

Her chin snapped up and she stiffened. "What? Who?"

He straightened and fixed her with a curious look. "I don't know. He didn't give a name. Just asked if you were around. I told him no, that you were out sick, and he left."

"Oh," she managed. "What did he look like?"

"Pretty damn good, if you ask me," Jake smirked, but she just frowned. "Okay, okay, let's see. About six one, pretty lean, red-ish hair, green eyes... uh...what else...His face was kind of long -" he gestured at his own features as though to elongate the chin "- no beard, pale skin," here he grinned again "a really tight-"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jake," Bella cut him off roughly. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"Whoa whoa whoa," he held up his hands in protest. "I didn't realize this was front page news. I mean, boy is hot and all, but he's no Brad or Rob."

"Fuck..." She leaned forward, propping her forehead up with one hand and stared at the old wooden table as though its scratches and deformations held some critical clue. "You're sure he didn't say anything else? Why he was here, if he's coming back?"

"Uh, yeah," Jake replied, arching his eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure I would have remembered... What the hell, Bella, why are you getting so worked up?"

"I'm – I'm not, I'm not getting worked up," she fumbled lamely, leaning back again and squeezing her eyes shut. "He's just... a guy I know."

Jake eyed her suspiciously. "Uh huh... just a guy. Okay, sure. Just a guy."

Her foot had begun to bounce against the floor, and she brought the beer bottle to her lips, tilting it back to get the last swallow and preclude any further discussion.

Jake stood up, stretching his long gangly arms to the ceiling. "All right, I'm heading back out. Who's closing tonight?"

"Me and Jessica," she muttered, running a shaky hand through her hair.

"Goody," he smirked, turning away, then paused. "Oh! Almost forgot. My cousin's in town tomorrow night for a job interview. Wanna come out and have a drink?"

She stared at him blankly before looking away. "Uh... I don't know."

"Come on Bella, he's cute and _sin_-gle," Jake sang.

"No, I really shouldn't. I'm still kinda under the weather, and I have like fifty loads of laundry to do..." she deflected, pressing the ice pack against her forehead. A cat howled in the alley behind the bar, and something clattered against garbage cans.

Jake shook his head. "Bella, that is so lame!" he exclaimed in mock outrage. "I am offering you a fabulous night out with Chicago's finest, and you're blowing me off for laundry? Don't you ever get tired of sitting around and feeling sor-"

"Jake!" she interrupted. "I'm not going. I have shit to do. Thanks, but no thanks."

He scowled a little. "All right... suit yourself."

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Bella poured drinks, scanned credit cards, shoved tips into her pocket, and stocked liquor and glassware in between orders. Not once did she pause for another break, though by the end of the shift, a cigarette would have been worth its weight in gold. By last call, the counter was as clean and organized as it had been before the place even opened, so she went straight for the mop and bucket. As the last few customers wandered out, Jessica stood by somewhat bewildered while Bella furiously scrubbed mop against floor.

"Um, thanks Martha Stewart," the other girl said. "Should I just -"

"The trash is still full," Bella cut her off, squeezing out the mop into the big yellow bucket.

Jessica clicked her tongue and huffed. "Like, did you eat paint chips as a child, or were you just born a total bitch?" she demanded before spinning around on one high-heeled sandal and heading for the kitchen.

Bella glared after her, then resumed mopping. Murky, bleach-scented water splashed around her feet as she slapped the mop down, but she didn't care. She just wanted to close up shop and get the hell out of here. He had come here, looking for her - why? Wasn't there one place in this city where he could just leave her _alone_? This was supposed to be simple – a risk, an expensive one at that, but simple. Find a guy, give him the names, the pictures and the money, then get on with your life. Instead, she'd somehow managed to stumble into _this_ mess. A vampire... a vampire?? Christ, she'd probably managed to find the only one in the city, or even the state! She was just trying to move on, to put herself back together, and now this...

"All right," Jessica called, emerging from the stock room. "We need more paper towels, but everything else looks fine."

Bella was standing in front of the registers, sorting money from each drawer into stacks of bills on the counter. She didn't look up as Jessica came over to grab her purse, which sat on a small shelf under one of the registers.

"So, I'm done here," Jessica continued, rummaging through the pink leather bag for lipstick. "Gypsy doesn't have a cover for another half hour, so I'm gonna go. You'll close up?"

"Yeah, I think can manage the door all by myself."

"Great!" With an obsequious smile and a flash of long blond hair, Jessica sauntered past the counter and was gone. Bella had emptied the drawers by then, and went to lock the cash up in a small safe in the stock room. Reseting the lock, she stepped back only to trip over a giant box of napkins, scattering its contents on the tiled floor.

"Shit!" Squatting, she began to gather the individually wrapped packages. The box was all but full when front door to the bar swung open again. Expecting to hear Jessica's heels clicking across the floor, she was instead greeted by silence. Frowning, she straightened and, carefully avoiding the other boxes on the floor, walked out into the main room.

The music had been turned off, and the bar seemed even darker now that everyone had left. Bella didn't notice the figure standing by the door until he took a silent step forward. A breath caught in her throat and she swallowed thickly, jaw clenched tight to keep her expression in check.

Edward stood in the middle of the empty room, his gaze firm, yet calm. "I hope I'm not intruding," he said quietly, placing a paper bag on the counter in front of him.

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Chapter end notes:

I'm so mean!!! But hey, it was either a cliffy or another week and a half before updating. Rock and a hard place...

Actually, you know who's mean? Bella! You know what would make her happier? You voting for this story at the **Indie TwiFIc Awards!!**

The URL is : / Look for Commission in the Best AU WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP.

Please? Pretty pretty please? Pretty pretty please with a sunday with warm sticky blood all over it that Edward would just die for???

Thanks :)

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	10. Chapter 10

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A/N: Wow, another chapter already? I know, I'm as surprised as you are. This one just came out - get those two together and the dialogue just about writes itself. Kind of.

A general thank you to everyone who has left reviews for this story - I hit refresh about 10 times/day in the hopes of seeing yet another lovely comment from a reader. I'm sorry if I haven't responded to your review yet - I will! Also, I have a request: while I am tickled pink by nice reviews, I kind of also want the critical ones. Didn't like Bella's whining? Think Edward is too awkward? Did the plot take a twist you don't agree with? I wanna know. Really. This is how we writers get better, and you would be doing me a favor by pointing out any holes you find. Just don't be mean :)

On with the show!

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Staring at the vampire in front of her, Bella took a tiny step back. Jake was gone, Tyler was gone, and even Jessica, Goddamn her, had left. It was nearly two in the morning; another bar at the end of the block would still be open, but all other businesses on this street would have closed by now. Police presence in the area was pretty light, too... She had her phone, but it was at the bottom her bag in the break room. The restaurant phone was there, too. Could she dial fast enough to -

Edward moved, sliding the paper bag he had brought with him along the counter toward her. It rustled softly under his hand, and the sound seemed to echo off the walls.

"This is for you," he said, his words slow and measured.

She flinched away from his voice. There was less than twenty feet of space between them now, with her on one side of the bartender's island and him on the other, and she wasn't about to narrow that distance.

"Wh-what is it?"

He took a long step backwards, away from the counter. "Some things which I owe you."

_You don't owe me anything,_ she wanted to say. _Just leave. _ Instead, she brushed stray hairs off of her brow and wrapped her arms around her waist, fingers digging into ribs. Each breath filled her lungs with a light shudder as her eyes flickered back and forth from the package to its courier. He stood motionless, watching her, but offered no further retreat.

Finally, she couldn't stand the stillness any longer. Crossing the floor with fast, uneven steps, she all but snatched the bag off the counter, and rushed back to the other side of the bar. Paper rustled again as she pulled out an unlabeled CD case. The disk inside was also blank; light from the break room bounced off its iridescent surface, throwing narrow arcs of color onto the walls.

She looked up at Edward. "What is this?"

"A recording of our initial conversations," he replied, gesturing vaguely at the disk. "You asked for a copy when we met. I thought it only fair to give it to you now.... Now that you are aware of the full implications of our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

A crease rippled his brow, but he said nothing.

The bag was not empty. Reaching in for its remaining contents, she stiffened when her fingers brushed against bound paper. Pulling the book out slowly, she bit her lip as the bag slipped away, revealing the title and cover. She recognized it instantly, and fought the urge to flip to the front page for the inscription she knew would be there.

It had been one of her sister's most valued books; a gift from a favorite college professor. Alice had tried to get her to read it on several occasions, insisting that evolutionary theory of animal behavior should be everyone's "thing."

This was the book he had been talking about that night? The realization that he had read it first left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"You shouldn't have taken this." Though the words came out evenly, she couldn't lift her eyes to his.

"I did not mean to. I didn't realize I was still holding it until after I had left your house. I tried to return it yesterday, but you were absent."

"You shouldn't have taken this," she repeated, louder. "You shouldn't have gone up there, you shouldn't have gone through her things -"

"I apologize," he interrupted. "I didn't realize that it was her room. I thought that -"

She slammed the book down on the counter, cutting him off. "What do you want from me??"

"I – Nothing. I don't want anything."

"Then why are you here? Why do you keep following me around?"

"I am _not -_" he broke off before his voice could gather more volume. "I only came here to return this book. And to give you the recording. After our previous... encounter, it did not seem wise to disturb you at home a second time."

She countered with another step back, clutching the book to her chest. "You need to leave. The bar is closed."

He cocked his head, eyes flickering around the room before settling on her face. This time, she forced herself to return his gaze. "Very well," he said after a long silence, lips gathered into a frown. Then, with one last appraising look around the bar, he turned and walked out.

Bella didn't wait for the door to close behind him before rushing into the break room. There, she stuffed the book and CD case into her canvas bag, slung it over her shoulder, and turned off the lights. The back door to the restaurant was still propped open; when she tried close it, the door stuck against the pavement. Her headache flared as she gritted her teeth and jerked it shut. Its locking mechanism slid into place with a heavy click. She paused there for a moment, leaning against the door frame, and waited for the coupled pounding in her head and chest to subside.

Walking across the floor of the restaurant, her legs felt shaky and weak. At the front door, she glanced back over her shoulder at the darkened room and took a deep breath. Then, pushing her weight against the glass door, she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The Chicago summer heat had begun to wane around midnight, leaving these early morning hours warm, but not oppressive. Bella locked up and walked toward the nearest intersection, straining her neck in search of a cab. Ordinarily, she would have taken the train, but Edward's sudden appearance had drained the last of her stamina. A cluster of cars passed by without a single taxi, so she stepped back from the curb and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Plucking one out with her lips, she rummaged through the various pockets of her bag and jeans for a lighter, but could not find one.

"Shit." She snatched the cigarette out of her mouth, stuffing it back into the pack in disgust, and leaned against a skinny tree.

Shoes shuffled against pavement behind her. "Do you need a light?"

Bella jerked back and spun toward the voice.

Very slowly, Edward bent forward and picked up the bag which had fallen from her shoulder, offering it to her with an outstretched arm. When she didn't move, he set it back down at her feet and took a step back.

"I'm sorry. It seems that I can't help but startle you."

Her chest heaved as she stared at him, unable to move or reply.

"I..." He ran a hand through his hair, and looked down. "I was just waiting here to confirm that you left safely."

Tiny tremors ran up and down her arms and torso. Finally managing to close her mouth, she gripped the tree trunk behind her with white knuckles.

"You are waiting for a taxi? Yes, I suppose that you are, but why here? The next intersection has far more traffic."

Blinking, she tore one trembling hand away from the tree and shouldered her bag.

He reached into his pocket. "Well, never mind. I have the numbers of several taxi companies programmed into my phone. Would you like me to call one?"

She found her voice. "N – no. I'll... I'll take the El."

"I would not recommend that. It is quite late-"

"It's fine."

His dark eyebrows furrowed. "Then, could I at least accompany you to the station?"

She took one step away from him, then another. "No. Don't."

"Really Bella, this area isn't as safe as you may th -"

"Stop it!" she said suddenly. "Stop saying these things, stop following me, stop acting like you give a shit!"

He seemed taken aback by her outburst. "I do."

"What?"

"I do. Give a shit, as you put it."

"Wh- don't- " She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment. "What do you _want_ with me?"

"I -" Edward rubbed the back of his neck, then let his hand fall back to his side. "I'm sorry. Clearly, I am not adept at this... I had thought that perhaps – well, I wondered if we might -"

"Might what? Hang out?" His discomfort brought on a sudden burst of courage, and she plowed forward. "It that it? Is that why you keep showing up everywhere? Because you want to be _friends_?"

His mouth tightened. "Yes, actually. I thought you might appreciate some company. I was obviously mistaken."

"Appreciate some – Jesus fucking Christ!" Her voice had begun to rise, and she spoke her next words slowly. "You are a hitman – a _vampire_. You kill people. You drink their blood, and you do it for money. And I'm supposed to appreciate your company?"

"Ah. I see. Killing for sustenance is far more deplorable than killing for peace of mind. Of course. I didn't realize that in the act of paying me to kill those men, you also rid yourself of any responsibility for their murder."

She stared at him in outrage. "I can't believe this. I can't fucking believe this! I hired you for a job – that's it. I don't want a lecture, I don't want your pity, and I sure as shit don't wanna be friends!"

"No, of course not." His words came out smothered in sarcasm. "You have more friendship than you know what to do with. When somebody requests your company, you have to decline in favor of laundry."

It took her a moment to realize that he was not referring to himself. "How did you - are you _spying_ on me??"

"No!" he said quickly. "I was waiting for an opportune moment to speak to you alone, and I happened to overhear the conversation. But that is hardly the point."

Her eyebrows shot up, but she stayed silent.

He shook his head. "This misery is your own creation. You do nothing but feed it, pushing away the very people who could help. You have trapped yourself in that house, hiding behind your sister's death and blaming circumstance for what your life is lacking. James Pelzer and Pat Taylor have wronged you both, and they deserve to pay for their crimes, but their death will change nothing. Your sister will still be dead, mummified in her bedroom, and you will still be alone. Only now, life will have lost the one purpose you've given it. And I... I have done nothing to deserve your scorn; to the contrary, I have only tried to help."

As he spoke, Bella started to move back, edging toward the street one inch at a time. "Get away from me," she whispered when he fell silent. "Shut up and stop coming around with your bullshit excuses. Just – get away."

Something flashed over his face – a look of confusion, maybe even regret, but she didn't care. Gripping the strap of her bag, she turned her back on him and rushed into the empty street. But before she could reach the other side, he was already there. "Bella, you can't just run every time-"

Thrusting her cell phone forward, she stopped just short of the curb. "What part of fuck off didn't you understand?? Leave me alone, or I'm calling the cops!"

A car sped by, honking, and she stumbled out of its way. The phone flew from her hand, and as it bounced against the curb, the battery snapped apart from the casing. Frantically, she shoved the device back together, fingers ready to dial.

But the sidewalk was empty.

***

Several years prior, Edward had bought a baby grand piano. Though he had no formal training in music, he took to playing with an obsessive enthusiasm. A handful of lessons introduced him to basic technique and music theory, but he preferred to play on his own, following no particular pedagogy or style. Composition was not his forte – that much was clear from the start – but he had an excellent ear and sense of rhythm, as well as an abundance of time. Arranging songs for the piano became a favorite hobby, and after four years of honing the craft, he had a sizeable collection of sheet music for everything from Simon and Garfunkel to the Alan Parsons Project.

Now, the sounds coming out of the Steinway formed no recognizable piece of music. He had been pounding on the keys all morning, and as his energy waned with the rising sun, the notes became less and less distinctive, colliding into each other like bewildered ants. Finally, he stumbled away from the piano and collapsed into a worn sofa in the opposite corner.

Both windows in this room were covered with insulation and blackout cloth, providing as much reprieve from the day the windowless bedroom would have. Fiddling with the stereo, he turned the volume up as high as he could stand and closed his eyes. The music emerging from the speakers was not loud enough to disturb the neighbors, but it nearly saturated his supersensitive hearing. He spent most of the day like this, sitting around in a numbed daze, allowing the continuous stream of music to drown out anything else that might be running through his head.

As evening fell, a choleric restlessness welled up in him, and would not be chased away by ordinary activities. Even a vigorous swim in the cold, dark waters of Lake Michigan did not provide relief. Coming back to the apartment just after midnight, he didn't know what else to do with himself. Pacing from room to room, he was debating whether to go out to the suburbs to hunt deer when the phone began to ring.

Expecting a new job inquiry, or perhaps a wrong number, he didn't rush in crossing the living room to where the phone sat on a shelf. He nearly dropped it when he saw the digits flashing on the screen. Flipping it open, he cleared his throat.

"Hello?"

The line crackled, as though the phone on the other end was being rubbed against something, then went silent. He looked at the display, but the call had not been lost. Putting the phone back to his ear, he listened again.

"Y-You know... it's not like I haven't tried." Bella's voice was hoarse, and the cadence of her speech uneven.

"Pardon?"

"It's been _two_ _years_, two fucking years... That's why I did all this, for Christ's sake... Found you, spent my inheritance... it's not like I fucking _like_ my life."

"You've been drinking," he said, struggling to keep up.

"Yeah," she chuckled. "You bet."

The delicacy of the situation made Edward nervous. He hadn't expected this, though part of him was glad that she had called.

"And I don't push people away, all right?" she was saying. "They just don't get it, nobody gets it. Y'know, Jake an' me used to be like _this_" --he imagined her crossing her index and middle fingers on the other end-- "but he's been such an ass. Says I should just snap out of it. How, huh? Tell me! How am I supposed to snap out of it??"

He heard a crash in the background, glass smashing into glass. "Bella. Bella, what are you doing?"

"...go on an' on about what's right and what's just, an' even _you _don't get it."

"I understand," he broke in. "I understand that you're angry and suffering. But living with grief need not be the prison you've created."

"I am _trying," _she exclaimed. "That's why I need this! I need them dead, I need my life back!"

"This is your life. You will never have complete control over its circumstances. Accept that."

"No... no!"

He heard another crash, then more crackling through the speaker. "Oooowww," Bella whined in the distance.

"Bella? Hello?" Seconds ticked by as more bedlam sounded on the other end. Edward began to pace. "Bella? Are you all right?"

"Fuck," she groaned into the phone.

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

She didn't answer at first. One breath caught in her throat, then another. Sharp, quiet gasps sent static over the line.

"I h-hate this," she finally whispered, and he realized that she was crying. "I hate being like this. Sometimes I even hate this house, but I can't just leave.... I hate, I _hate_ being alone here..." Her voice broke on the last word, terse sobs obscuring whatever else would have been said.

The nakedness of her words stuck him squarely in the chest. "Then... let me come over."

In the seconds that followed, it was as though the phone line had gone dead. Then, a long and tense breath whispered against his ear.

"Okay."

***********

End Notes: Thanks for reading and reviewing everyone! Now, if you want to absolutely, totally make my day, please consider** voting for this story on the Indie TwiFic Award**s. It has been nominated in two categories: Best Alternate Universe WIP and Most Original Story Line WIP. The URL is here : /

**Thanks!!! It would mean ever so much to me :)**


	11. Chapter 11

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A/N:

Ack!! Is anyone still reading this thing?? This update has been about 1.5 months coming. See, I got it ready and then I went on vacation for 3 weeks, during which my beta Twilightzoner wrote back and said "you should work on this a little more." And... she was right. I'm glad I did, and I hope that, despite the wait, you will be too. Let's face it, this is the downside of reading a story which is being written in real time.

Alright, enough excuses. I do want to remind you guys that there is now a forum thread for this story, where I have been posting notes on chapter progress, as well as teasers to tide you over. Go check it out!

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Also! This story won the Indie Twific Judges Awards for Special Merit!! How friggin' cool is that?? I didn't even know they were having that award, so that was one hell of a pleasant surprise. Tee hee :)

Finally, thanks as usual to Twilightzoner and angelvamp, and special thanks this week to AerosolDoc, who helped a lot with putting this chapter together and smoothing out its various edges. You rock!

And so, without further ado... Chapter 11!!

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The line clicked softly, and the phone was silent. Edward put it back on the shelf, hand hovering over it for a moment. Taking a step back, he straightened a few of the neighboring books, looked around the room, then grabbed the phone again and let it fall into a pocket of his pants.

Okay... she had said "Okay." The answer had shocked him nearly as much as his own request. He hadn't planned on asking anything of her, but his tongue seemed to act of its own volition. Had he hesitated for a moment, really thought the matter through, he may well have said nothing. After all, Bella had made it perfectly clear, and on more than one occasion, that she wanted nothing to do with him. Yet now … she had said okay.

In the bedroom, he pulled a few twenty dollar bills out of an ornate wooden box in the back of the closet. Pausing in front of a full-length mirror, he caught sight of several smears of soot along his torso and, frowning, exchanged the white t-shirt for a black one. Scrambling along rooftops was a thrilling sport, but also a dirty one.

Slipping on shoes at the end of the hallway, he paused with one hand on the door knob, then kicked them off again. Back in the media room, he went over the shelves of films twice before grabbing a favorite documentary, figuring that, at the very least, they would have something to watch. Half-way down the stairs, he realized that the front door had been left unlocked, and bounded back up three steps at a time. Having finally left the building, he chose to play pedestrian, walking briskly through the deserted streets of downtown Chicago. A nervous energy fueled each step, propelling him forward even as reason sought to hold him back.

Was Bella even sober enough to understand what he was asking? And had he interpreted her answer correctly? Assuming so, assuming that he now had permission to return to her home, the idea suddenly filled him with dread. His previous visit had not been forgotten:; the panic in her voice, the way she trembled with each of his movements... He had patched her up, kept watch, done his best to diffuse her discomfort, and still she had recoiled from him. And going to the restaurant had been nothing short of magnanimous. Checking up on her, delivering the book and CD – he didn't have to do any of those things. True, the book had not been his to take, but he'd meant to put it back before leaving, so walking out with it had been honest mistake.

Yet Bella had thrown each olive branch back in his face. Her dogged refusal to see beyond the very surface of his nature angered him. Immediate grievances aside, nearly every hour of the last decade had been spent analyzing, wrestling with, and finally stifling his most basic needs, all in the name of compassion for humans like her. That deserved some credit.

After their confrontation outside the bar, he had not expected to hear from her again, but told himself that this was irrelevant. Two more suitable victims had been identified, so any further involvement on Bella's part was superfluous. He certainly didn't need her money – not only an expert killer, Edward had once been an accomplished thief. Having remembered what money was good for and how one might get it, he wasted no time in securing his financial future. Between the 1930's and 1980's, dozens of rare art pieces, jewelry and archaeological artifacts passed through his hands and into the black market. The profits were invested in stocks and real estate abroad under a series of false identities. Maintaining control of the money beyond the duration of a human lifetime proved as simple as faking an inheritance from one imaginary person to another. Now, after decades of compound interest, his net worth nearly rivaled the GDP of a small country.

The whole thing had been a hassle at the time – the workings of human society at once bored and confused him - but Edward learned enough to know whom to pay for the necessary documents and transactions. In fact, it was these ties to the criminal world which eventually enabled him to pursue his current profession. As a hitman, he relied on multiple conduits to spread his reputation and attract potential customers. That many of those customers ended up dead themselves was a potential wrench in the gears, so he cast his net wide to minimize the probability of any one contact putting the facts together. Contacts like Mike Newton, the man who'd brought Bella to his door. Newton was a small time drug and weapons dealer who knew next to nothing about Edward, other than his most recent phone number. He couldn't help but wonder how Bella knew a guy like Mike Newton in the first place.

The nearby blaring of a police siren jerked Edward out of his thoughts. He was well north of the Loop now, within a mile of Bella's house. It had taken thirty minutes to get here, but if he turned back and retreated at full speed, he could be home within ten.

Was she waiting for him?

"This is foolish," he muttered out loud, coming to a stop. He didn't need this. Things were better off the way they were. Life might not have been simple, or even fair, but at least he knew how to live it. This girl, this one human girl … she could ruin everything--destroy his carefully-crafted existence with one phone call. And there were millions, billions more out there; people whose lives were worth no more or less than hers. So why – why couldn't he keep her out of his thoughts? Why had he listened to those recordings over and over, until each word, each inflection of her voice became committed to memory? When had she become unique to him?

He thought back to the night he spent at her house. The unease he had felt in coming there was nothing compared to the storm of anxiety that whirled in his stomach now. When he first encountered her, asleep on the couch, a rare and uncomfortable sensation had stirred in him. Then, once he saw those books and realized that she knew the truth, panic and rage overwhelmed any other desires. He had wanted to kill her, had come so close to snuffing out that gossamer life... Yet now, he cringed at the thought of harming her. In fact, the act of tending to her injuries that night had brought on a strange sort of comfort that Edward was not familiar with. Even through the bloodlust, he remembered a sense of satisfaction in knowing that, for once, he was maintaining life instead of destroying it.

Staring at his hands in the middle of the street, he remembered the feel of Bella's hair through his fingers, the weight of her head resting in his lap. She had been unconscious, vulnerable, helpless ... and he had helped her.

Lightning pierced the sky above him, and on its heels, a clap of thunder shook the clouds. Fat, heavy drops of rain began to plop against ground, and within moments, water was pouring down in sheets. Pushing drenched hair off of his brow, Edward took one step forward, then another, and broke into a steady run north to Lincoln Park.

***

Turning onto Bella's street, Edward slowed to a walk again, wiping the water from his eyes. The rain had not eased much. Another lightning bolt flashed through the clouds, illuminating street gutters overrun with torrents of water and old leaves. At least the water was warm. Before he began to restrict his diet, the weather had hardly mattered – his body could regulate its temperature in all climates. Now, however, though feeding on animals helped to manage his hunger, it did not prevent the physical toll of malnutrition. These days, it seemed like he was always a little slower, a little weaker. The winter of '98 was the first time he had ever felt cold, shivering on a dark November night in nothing more than a t-shirt, dismayed by the discovery of yet another weakness. Although summer nights were the shortest, Edward was now as happy as any Chicagoan to see the winter off. Maybe someday, he would finally leave this place and go south, to Miami or New Orleans, or even Houston …

The house he sought was at the end of the street, next to a school. Walking down the block, he surveyed the neighboring houses, noting their dark windows with a habitual satisfaction. It was well past one in the morning now, and this was a residential area. Few, if any, of its inhabitants would be awake so late on a Tuesday. He heard nothing but the drumming rain drops, which thudded loudly against rooftops and sidewalks, providing a sense of privacy that eased his nerves.

Finally, he came to the brick, narrow house at the very end of the block. The front door was ajar, and there, under the awning of the front porch, sat Bella, holding a half-spent cigarette in one hand and a glass of clear liquid in another. She was bent forward, elbows resting on thighs, gazing sideways at the empty playground a few dozen yards away. An ashtray sat on the step below her feet, but the rain had turned it into a small puddle of ash and cigarette butts. Her toes and feet glistened in the light streaming from the foyer, and when another flash of lightning lit up the sky, Edward could make out each individual droplet that lingered on the pale, smooth skin of her legs.

The last thing he wanted was to sneak up on her again, so he cleared his throat before taking a step along the cement walkway that led to the house. Bella's face snapped forward, and she rose quickly, swaying a little on her feet. The cotton hem of her yellow skirt dripped with rain water, clinging to the outline of her calves.

"Hi," she said quickly, then took a long swallow from her glass and sat back down. The glass clinked clumsily against the concrete step.

He took a few more steps forward. "Hello. I … hope I did not misunderstand you in coming here."

She shook her head and stuffed the cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. The butt hissed, emitting a final wisp of smoke, and floated to the surface with the others. "No it's – it's okay."

He nodded several times, then walked quickly up the steps and to a far corner of the porch. "Uh – just a moment," he said, and began to wring the excess water from his shirt and hair. Squeezing out as much as possible, he shook his head vigorously, and brushed tangled strands of hair away from his face. Turning back to Bella, he caught the hint of a smirk playing on her lips as she watched him.

"You look just like Martin, doing that," she said.

"Who is Martin?"

"My dad's old German Shepherd. He used to shake himself out just like that after we'd hose him off in the yard."

He blinked at her.

"Well, I guess all dogs do that," she added. "Not that you look like a dog. Well, just then you did, but not really … " Drumming her thumbs against each other, she seemed nervous, uncomfortable, though her speech was clearer than it had been on the phone. He wondered how much she could have sobered up in the time it had taken him to get here.

He cocked his head to the side. "May I sit down?"

Bella glanced at his shoes, then at the two feet of space on the step next to her, then back to him. He stood close enough to hear her pulse now, and it quickened as she continued to hesitate. He scowled and was about to take a step back when she said "Sure, okay."

Scooting along the step until her hip pressed against the wooden banister, she dropped her gaze. She was still afraid of him, he realized with a now-familiar frustration. But, at least she was trying, instead of lashing out or running away. Sighing, he lowered himself to the opposite side of the step. Something poked into his thigh, and he leaned back, pulling the plastic DVD case out of his pocket. Instead of setting it on the cement between them, he held it out to her. "Here."

"What's that?" she asked, but made no move to take it.

He waved the DVD at her pointedly. Slowly, she unfolded one hand from her lap and reached for the case. As soon as her fingers grasped a corner, he released it.

"It is a documentary. One of my favorites. I thought that perhaps we -- that you may find it interesting."

"Oh." She emptied the glass she'd been holding and set it down behind her, studying the cover of the film more closely.

He sniffed the air. "You are not drinking alcohol."

"No," she shook her head. "Just water. Thought I'd lay off the sauce for now... "

He nodded. His long legs stretched well beyond the cover of the porch roof, and rain drops pounded into his already-soaked shoes.

"Do you mind if I remove these?" he asked after a moment, reaching for the laces.

"Go ahead."

He pulled sock and shoe off in one motion, and turned to set the soaking mess on the top step, adding absently, "I don't suppose it matters to have them out of the rain." Flexing each foot, he tapped his bare toes against small puddles on the stairs, sending ripples in every direction.

Bella was picking at something on her skirt. The pink t-shirt she wore hung loosely on her slight frame. Its short sleeves revealed a patchwork of thin, horizontal scars along her upper and lower arm.

"Why do you do that?" Edward asked, pointing.

She glanced down sharply, and rubbed her arm. "I don't know," she muttered.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. Bella shifted, drawing her shoulders forward. Cursing his apparent lack of tact, he fumbled for an apology that would not sound too contrived. "That was not – the right thing to ask."

She huffed once, eyebrows arched, but said nothing. He fought the urge to apologize again, and said instead, "It's just... Well, are you all right? On the phone, you were very... upset."

"Yeah. That happens a lot these days."

"Is it because of what I said before? In front of the restaurant?" This notion had only occurred to him on the way over, and it had not been a comfortable realization. He seemed to be developing a nasty habit of speaking out of turn. "If so, I apologize for my frankness."

"No, it wasn't you. Well," she gave him a sidelong glance, "actually, it was. But – it's true... what you said. Some of it, anyway."

He wasn't sure what she meant, nor whether he should ask for clarification. "Well, I won't pretend to fully understand -"

"You don't. Nobody does." She leaned forward to throw a pebble off the step. It landed softly in the yellowed patch of grass that served as the front lawn.

"Then..." he ran a hand through his hair. "Why did you call me?"

She frowned. "I dunno. I guess... I just wanted to." Sighing sharply, she added "This sounds really fucked up, but – you're the only one who really knows."

"Knows what?" he asked, feeling more and more foolish by the second.

"Everything."

At that moment, he felt very far from omniscient. "About Alice, you mean?"

She nodded.

"Then … you haven't discussed your suspicions with anyone else?"

"They're not suspicions," she said sharply. "And yeah, of course, I've talked about it. That's all I did at first. After people found out about how she died, I thought – God, I thought it was so obvious. That everyone would see it, understand what really happened. But... once the cops made their statement -" here she turned to him, the muscles of her jaw standing out in clear relief. "That was it; that was enough. Everybody just ate it up."

"That your sister died of a drug overdose, you mean? Rather than foul play?"

Bella nodded again, her mouth set into a disgusted grimace. "I stopped talking about it after that. People started looking at me funny. Some would pretend to listen, but then they'd act like I was some paranoid nutjob. Shit, my college roommate, you know what she said? She said I'm – I'm in denial. I can't accept that Alice wasn't perfect, that she made bad decisions. I know she made bad decisions! She stayed with _him_ for two years, for fuck's sake, and now she's -" her voice broke on a sharp, ragged breath. "Nobody wants the truth. They just hear what helps them sleep at night. Fucking sheep." She wrapped her arms around her ribcage, fingers tugged tightly under elbows.

He stared at her, stuck suddenly by the sharp contrast of the pugnacity of her tone with the frailty of her form. Wrapped into herself, she appeared to be shrinking before his very eyes, as though the bitterness of the words were sucking the very substance from the body.

Something occurred to him then, an understanding he had been seeking for some time. "Ah. This makes more sense to me now."

Bella lifted her chin. "What?"

"Why you behave this way. Why you are so unpleasant to others. I had been trying and failing to understand your perpetual rudeness, but I suppose that if I were in your place, where no one believed my grief and convictions, I would be similarly ill-mannered and withdrawn. Yes, this clarifies a lot."

He looked back at her, quite pleased with himself. Yet, instead of concession or even appreciation for his insight, her face was a mask of surprise and anger.

"What the fuck?" she sputtered, and pulled away.

"What?" he asked, flustered. She was angry at him. Again. "Why are you upset? Am I mistaken, then? Was this always your method of interaction?"

"Are you serious?" she stared at him, wide eyed, but the outrage in her expression was giving way to something resembling mere incredulity.

He stared back. "Yes. What – what is the problem?"

She tilted her head and studied him. "You don't... talk to people much, do you?"

"I don't understand."

"Edward, you just called me rude, unpleasant, and ill-mannered in the same sentence. And you're wondering why I'm pissed off?" Her tone remained sharp, but she spoke each word with an obvious effort at patience.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Well, was I wrong?"

The patience vanished from her narrowed eyes. Arms crossed, she turned away to glare at the sidewalk and exhaled sharply. He fidgeted again, torn between the urge to justify his words further, and snatch them from the air to undo the conversation all together. Bella seemed to be struggling too, her lips twitching as though she were on the verge of saying something, but could not find the right words.

That he could relate to. He fought a sudden urge to reach out and steady her shoulder. "I believe you, Bella. About Alice."

"Why?" she muttered.

"Well," he paused, considering his words carefully, "your explanation seemed the most probable. I researched your case before we met again. This is my policy for all contracts. There was no outright proof, but the official explanation was highly suspect. Both of the men had been arrested for drug possession in the past, while your sister never had more than a parking ticket on her record. And the autopsy report-"

"Stop," she hissed.

He flinched back, blinking. He'd done it again, said the wrong thing. "I'm sor-"

"How did you get it?"

"Pardon?"

"The report? And their criminal history?"

"Ah. The Internet."

"You can't find that online."

"Not legally."

"What, so you're a hacker?"

"You could say that, I suppose," he admitted. "I know enough to keep an eye on the local police department. It has proven quite useful in the past."

Bella nodded slowly, the frown on her face easing somewhat, and neither of them spoke for a while. Edward's gaze flickered between the empty street and the girl next to him, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Her posture began to soften, shoulders loosening and arms sliding down to her sides. As the break in conversation stretched on, he shifted, searching for something to say. Another clap of thunder boomed in the distance.

It was Bella who finally spoke. "I Googled the ex-husband... Leonard Schwartz. There was an obituary. His death was reported as a hit and run... There were a few witnesses, but they haven't found the car."

"And they won't. I have no doubt that it was stripped for parts and distributed within hours of the incident."

"Huh. I just figured they'd drive it into the river or something."

"No, no" he shook his head, "if it were ever found, it would draw suspicion. The point was to make the death look accidental, though, in my opinion, the job was poorly executed."

She frowned. "Seems like they covered their tracks pretty well."

"Perhaps. But disposing of the vehicle requires outside contacts, people you become dependent on. The risk is neither trivial nor necessary."

A wisp of hair had fallen out of the tousled braid on the back of her head, and she combed her fingers through it forcefully. "That woman - his wife. She said you turned down the job."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Hers was the wrong motivation. Surely – " he turned to catch her eye " – that does not require further explanation."

"But you knew she would have him killed, you were waiting for it." Despite the challenge in her tone, she met his gaze reluctantly, still tugging at her hair. "You could have just turned her in or warned the husband."

"That would have been counterproductive. On several levels, actually. If I were to turn her in, I would need to prove how I came by the information, and either way, she would surely expose me. If I had warned the victim, even anonymously, it is doubtful that he could have saved himself. There are many, many ways to kill a man. Finally, if he hadn't-"

"You could have killed her first. Then she wouldn't have hired anyone else. They didn't both have to die."

"But how could I be certain that she would go through with the act? Perhaps my refusal would have discouraged her. That has happened on occasion. The only way to be absolutely certain that my actions are fair is to evaluate outcome, rather than intent."

Bella shook her head. "You're going about this the wrong way. The fair thing to do is keep innocent people from dying."

He pressed his lips into a frustrated line. "You still don't understand. I have no choice in this. If I hadn't allowed the wife her to earn her fate, had waited just a few more days before feeding, I may well have killed Leonard Swartz myself. Or anyone else who crossed my path at the wrong time."

As he spoke, Bella's heart rate had begun to climb. On his last words, her breath hitched, and she turned away, pressing a fist against her mouth. "Bella, I have no choice," he repeated firmly. Her pulse rang out in his ears. She sat stiff, motionless save for the tiny tremors that rippled the fabric of her shirt.

He looked down at his hands, which had tightened into fists in his lap. "Well, what would you have me do?" he finally demanded. "Starve? I cannot. These are the conditions of my existence – an existence I did not ask for and cannot end. As it is, I have stretched my body's tolerance to its limits, and it would seem that persistent hunger is my one reward. You may think me cold, calculating, impervious, but it eats at me. _It_ eats at _me_!" He slammed an open palm against the step in between them. Bella flinched.

"I am a killer, and so I must kill. My one reprieve is the knowledge that, at the very least, I do everything in my power to act justly. To take lives with discretion. To act deliberately, in accordance with the moral principles I believe in. But perhaps," he went on, his voice hardening, "you have some better insight into my dilemma. Perhaps, after years of obsessive inquiry, there is something I have overlooked? Then tell me, what else am I to do? Damn it, what would you have me do?"

The last words were all but a growl in the back of his throat. Bella didn't respond, her face obscured by shadow. The air between them had grown thick and bitter; through the silence, it seemed he could feel the frantic throbbing of her heart in his own chest.

He rose to his feet. "Fine. In the past few days, I have done everything in my power to earn your trust, but in your eyes, I remain as monstrous as the men who killed your sister. Perhaps even more." He paused a final time, but when she said nothing to contradict the comparison, he shook his head and turned away. "You said you called me because I accept your circumstances. I will not stay if you won't accept mine." Grabbing his shoes, he stepped off the porch, bare feet pounding against the cold cement.

He was half-way to the street before Bella finally spoke, her clothes rustling as she rose. "Edward, wait –" she called after him.

His stride faltered, but he shook his head and continued walking.

"I'm sorry," she added, louder. "Don't leave."

He stopped. Her soft steps were almost perfectly in time with the stream of water dripping from a corner of the roof.

"Wait," she repeated, only inches behind him now. When he didn't move, she added "please," her fingers brushing against his wrist. The touch was fleeting, barely perceptible, but his skin prickled nonetheless. Breathing through the anger that had tightened in his chest, he turned. Bella stood with one hand poised precariously between them. It hovered a mere inches from where she had touched him, so close that he could feel the heat radiating from each fingertip.

"I'm sorry," she said again, starring at the space between their hands. Then she pulled her arm back, and tucked another errant strand of hair shakily behind her ear. "I guess – I guess I have no idea what your life is actually like."

"No, you don't," he replied, his voice thick with reproval.

She sighed and took a step back, nodding her head toward the porch. "Will you sit down?" she asked quietly. He didn't answer. She took another breath and added quickly "I'm – I'm trying, okay? It's just – a lot. A lot to deal with. But I don't -" she broke off and wove her hands together, fingers grinding and slipping against each other until the knuckles turned white. Then she pried them apart with a jerk. "You're not like them."

He let out a breath that he didn't realize he'd been holding, and clenched his jaw so tightly that his temples began to throb. It was true. He was a better man. He knew it, had proven it to himself time and time again. Yet, in that moment, it was as thought the knowledge had been mere hope, mere wishful thinking; an aspiration forever out of his reach, until she, in saying the words out loud, had made it true for the first time.

Her voice echoed so loudly in his head that he couldn't say anything, could barely think straight enough to stand in one place. Blinking furiously, he watched as she ascended the steps and sat down, this time not pressing herself up against the banister, away from him.

"Sit down?" she asked again.

He stared at her for another long moment, then walked forward and sank slowly into the space she had left for him.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The rain had finally begun to wane, replaced by a persistent wind gathering strength from the lake. It gusted through his wet clothes and hair, chilling every inch of his body, but he was grateful for the sensation. It rooted him back into place. He breathed deeply, allowed the humid air to fill his lungs to the brim, and held each breath until the oxygen was spent, the carbon dioxide saturated his blood, and he could not keep from exhaling.

In the corner of his eye, Bella shivered.

"How often do you need it?" she whispered.

"Need what?"

"Blood." She spoke so softly that, were it not for his augmented hearing, the word might have been lost in the trickle of rain along rooftops and street gutters.

He leaned back, running a hand through his damp, tangled hair. "Before, when I did not... restrict myself, I fed once every six or seven days. Now, some blood is necessary every two or three. Most frequently, I eat animals. Sometimes deer, sometimes cattle, or even dogs or cats."

"But... if you can live off animal blood, why do you -" she broke off. He waited while she swallowed thickly and tried again. "Why do you need to kill humans?"

"Because animal blood is not enough. I do not understand why, but some portion of my diet needs to be human. As it is, I eat too much of one, and not enough of the other."

"What about blood banks?"

He grimaced. "No. Whatever it is about the blood I drink, it must be straight from the source. A live source."

"So... how often?"

"Once every month is acceptable. Five weeks is a strain. Six is... dangerous."

Bella bit the nail of her thumb and turned to face the playground, where a swing rocked softly in the breeze. "You said you're hungry all the time."

"Yes, to an extent."

"Because you don't get enough blood?"

"Because I don't get enough of the proper type. Animal blood is a poor substitute at best. My body needs human blood. Waiting as long as I do between obtaining it causes certain – " here he paused, considering how much to reveal " – certain side-effects."

Bella turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

He rubbed the back of his neck and avoided her gaze. "It is – difficult to explain. I have never been to a physician, but from what I have read, malnutrition is the best analogy."

"Then how do you not get sick? Or die?" Her brows furrowed as she studied him intently. "_Can_ you die?"

"I don't know," he answered truthfully. "That is a question I myself would like answered. As far as I can tell, I have not aged perceptibly since becoming a vampire. I have been ill in the past, and the experience is very unpleasant, but it takes its course and leaves me unharmed. Nothing other than hunger appears to do any permanent damage, so I suppose that, if properly restrained, I could starve to death."

She appeared to mull this over. "What about, like, holy water and stuff?"

He bit back the urge to laugh. "What about it?"

"It doesn't harm you?"

"Find me water that is truly holy, and we can stage an experiment."

Bella fingered a thin silver chain that hung around her neck and disappeared into the collar of her shirt. "Okay then. Steak through the heart? Crosses?"

Even though she was frowning, Edward was finding it more and more difficult to maintain a straight face. The ridiculous ideas people had come up with for the illusion of security... "I have yet to encounter wood which could penetrate my skin. I suppose that, if sharpened to a fine enough point and accelerated with sufficient force, a cross made out of stainless steel or a similar alloy could effectively impale me."

"How about garlic?"

He couldn't help himself. "If I consume sufficient quantities -" he began with all of the gravity that he could muster. Bella watched him intently, her mouth slightly parted. For a moment, he simply stared back, caught off guard by the glimmer of her lips in the soft light.

"Then what?" she prompted.

He blinked. "Then I suppose it would give me a stomach ache."

She grimaced at his grin. "You're an ass," she muttered, but the corners of her mouth had begun to curl upward.

He chuckled softly, pleased with the joke.

"What about sunlight?"

His smile vanished. "Sunlight?"

"Yeah. Does it hurt you?"

"No," he lied.

"Then why have I only seen you out at night?"

"My vision is very sensitive," he answered quickly. "I have superior acuity in low light, but, as a consequence, the intensity of daylight is not comfortable, even with the darkest sunglasses. Thus, I prefer to be nocturnal, like most of my prey." It wasn't entirely a lie, but it was all he wanted to say about the matter.

"Huh. Bummer." Bella's expression remained thoughtful, but he was ready with the next set of excuses should she press the matter further.

"Have you always been a vampire?" she asked instead, fiddling with her empty water glass.

"No."

"Then you were human once? Like me?"

"Yes, just like you. But I have virtually no memories of that life."

"So how long have you been like this?"

"I cannot be certain. I have been a vampire for over eighty years, but it may well be longer than one hundred. My memory becomes more and more obscure the farther back I try to recall."

A corner of her mouth quirked. "You don't look one hundred."

"How old do I look?"

"I dunno," she shrugged. "Thirty? Give or take a few years? It's weird, you look different now than the first time I saw you. Almost … younger. Maybe it's your eyes?"

He fought the urge to squirm under her appraising gaze. "How old are you?" he asked instead, though he had long ago found out the answer. Born at Rush University Medical Center on August 13th, 1979, to Renee and Charles Swan.

"Twenty seven," she answered. "Well, almost. So, you don't remember anything about … before? When you were human?"

Edward drummed his fingers on his thigh, letting the patter of rain fill up the silence between them. "A deceptively simple question," he finally answered. "The short answer is no, not in the way that you imagine. But I am not entirely ignorant of my past. There was a period of several years when I began to remember certain events, but I had no control over the content of each memory, nor could I recall them at will." Seeing her confused expression, he added, "Think of it like a waking dream. Or a very vivid flashback which could come at any moment in the day."

"Wow, that's weird. Like amnesia or something."

"Yes," he said softly, staring at his hands. "That is exactly how I have come to think of it."

"Is that what this is about?" she asked, picking up the DVD he had brought. "_Unknown White Male. _I think I've heard of it, actually. It came out last summer, right?"

"Yes, it did. It is – " Suddenly, he was struggling to express himself. "It is very good. Very … insightful."

She studied the back of the case for a minute, then turned back to him. "Will you tell me something you remember? About being human?"

He swallowed. Of all of the questions he had expected to be asked, this one had never crossed his mind. Suddenly, his tongue felt dry and heavy. Excuses sprang forth: each memory was too short, he couldn't remember anything coherently enough, none were particularly interesting. But Bella was watching him with a softness in her eyes that he had never seen before.

He shifted his weight, shivering as a gust of wind swept past them. "I remember a camping trip with my father and some of his friends when I was young. My brother and I left our tent in the middle of the night to go swimming in the lake near the camp site."

Bella had leaned toward him, so slightly that she probably didn't realize it herself. The heat from her body enveloped the side of his face, his shoulder, his leg. He swallowed again, and kept his eyes fixed on the street in front of them. "It began to rain just before we got to the water, a thunderstorm like this one. We were frightened, but neither wanted to admit it. I remember how the lightning and thunder seemed so horrible, so monstrous … we were two small boys alone in a forest, about to enter dark waters where all manner of creatures might be hiding, waiting to devour us whole."

"What happened?" she asked softly.

"We went in, but only for a moment. My brother thought he felt something brush up against his leg, so we fled back to camp. Woke up the entire camp with our racket. My father was, as you might guess, less than pleased."

"Then you do remember it," Bella said. "Your human life."

He sighed. "Hardly. Like I said, some memories have returned, but they are woefully incomplete, and I cannot recall any others at will. This particular memory is one of the longest. It came two summers ago, on a night when it was also raining."

She considered his words for a while. "Do you know what happened to them? Your parents, your brother?"

He shook his head. "No. I don't even remember my brother's name."

"But you know yours?"

"No, actually. 'Edward' was something I chose to call myself when having a name became necessary. I have had others, but this is the one I prefer."

"Then..." she paused, frowning thoughtfully. "How can you be sure that he's your brother? Or that any of that even happened?"

Water dripped from the gutters of a neighbor's roof, and his vampire eyes could follow the descent of each drop. Over a hundred flew by before he gave an answer.

"I suppose..." he muttered, running a hand through his hair, "I suppose I can't. When that memory revealed itself, it was as vivid as real life, as though I were that little boy again. I knew everything that he knew, I saw and felt everything through him. If that memory is real, then I am certain that I once had a brother and went camping with my family. If it is not..." He trailed off, leaning his head against the banister, and watched the wind ripple through long puddles on the street and sidewalk. Then he shivered, wrapping both arms around his still-damp torso.

"Are you cold?" Bella asked.

"It... isn't a problem."

"No, you're cold. Look, you're covered in goose bumps." She stood up. "Hang on, I'll be right back." The damp hem of her skirt swayed with each step, grazing his upper arm as she walked passed.

"No," he said quickly, and she paused in midstride. "It's fine. In fact, I shouldn't stay much longer. There are things I need to tend to before – " Here he caught himself. _Before the sun rises_, he had almost said.

"Oh." Her brow furrowed briefly. "Okay. Well... thanks for this. I'll watch it soon." She picked up the DVD and tucked it under her arm.

"You are welcome." Standing up as well, he reached for his shoes.

Glass and ashtray in hand, Bella took a step toward the front door. "Listen, I –" she began, then ducked her head. "Thanks. For coming by."

"You are welcome," he repeated, feeling stupid, but not knowing what else to say.

"I guess..." she said, one foot on the threshold, "I guess I'll see you around."

"Yes," he nodded. "That would be … fine."

_Fine? _he thought to himself, tracing his way back to the main street_. All you could say was 'fine'? _

_***_

"You need to have a look at this."

thin folder landed in front of Special Agent Mark Britt, and he looked up from his computer.

"Good morning to you, too, Agent Carter," he said to the woman standing on the other side of his desk.

She crossed her arms, manicured nails tapping against the sleeve of her white blouse. "I'm serious, Mark. I think this one's important."

"I'm serious, too, Angela. Good morning. I would ask what you're talking about, but sounds like you're going to make me guess. What is it this time? Some cult of bored high school kids getting sick on pig's blood? A man who can turn into a bat, but only on leap year?"

She scowled and pushed the file toward him, knocking a stack of papers to the floor.

"Whoa whoa whoa! Take it easy, Carter." Pushing back his chair, Mark leaned over to gather the fallen paperwork. "I just cleaned this mess."

Ignoring his complaints, Agent Carter flipped the folder open. "Read," she said firmly.

He cleared his throat, frowning, and flipped through the file. "All right," he said, pushing it away. "You got me. I have no idea what a missing persons case has to do with anything."

"It isn't just a missing persons case. It's the tenth unsolved disappearance in Chicago in the last thirteen months. That doesn't strike you as remarkable?"

"Remarkable?" He frowned, rubbing his eyes. "Maybe. But not my jurisdiction. Look, we got another body in two nights ago, and I've been down in the basement for 36 out of the last 48 hours. Will you get to the point?"

Agent Carter snatched the file from his desk. "The point is simple," she said, waving it at him. "You're wasting your time with corpse after corpse when this is a real lead."

"What, you think vampires kidnapped this woman?" Mark scoffed. "Angela, I realize we're flying blind here, but don't you think you're grasping at straws? What makes you think – "

The shrill ring of his cell phone cut him off. Glancing at the screen he frowned. "It's my wife. Listen, I need to take this, my kid is sick."

"All right." Agent Carter tossed the folder back on his desk. "But if I were back on V- Crime, I'd make this my bedtime reading." She arched her eyebrows pointedly.

"Okay, okay. I'll have a look," Mark said hurriedly as the phone continued to ring. Agent Carter favored him with one more look before stepping out of the cubicle.

Flipping open his phone, Mark tossed the file on top of a growing pile of papers requiring his attention. Two more years on this dead-end assignment and he could finally move on with his career.

************

End notes: If you're reading this for the second time, hope you liked the changes :) Next, what's Bella's story, anyway? Who was she before her sister died?


	12. Chapter 12

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A/N:

Ahoy! It has (once again) been a while. I'm sorry to keep you all waiting, I really am, but sometimes real life is a bitch. One thing I want to emphasize, though is that even though it has been taking me longer to get these chapters out recently, I am by no means even thinking about not finishing this story. It will be completed. Scout's honor. Those of you who have left lovely-yet-despairing reviews asking me not to quit writing, fear not! I promise that I won't leave Hitward and emo-Bella hanging with out an ending.

With that, I'd like to thank Twilightzoner for her ever helpful critical eye, AerosolDoc for extraordinary beta-ing and encouragement when I was once again ready to rip this thing to pieces rather than post, and ladies of the Coven ( you know who you are) for being an awesome writing and critiquing community.

And of course, I'd like to thank you the readers, especially those who have taken the time to PM or review to let me know what it is about this story that has drawn you in. I am particularly grateful for the insights that help me make it better.

Enjoy!

**********

Water burst out of the metal faucet, drumming against the plastic sides of the workroom sink. Bella plunged her arms into the water, wincing as the stream hit her grease-covered skin. It was almost too hot, and she had to will herself to hold still while her body slowly adjusted to the temperature. Then she reached for the industrial-strength liquid soap to scrub layers of muck off her fingers, hands and forearms. It had been a long day, and she had spent most of it here, in the back of the bike shop. Between the backlog of repairs and new bikes that had to be assembled and tuned, there was plenty to do. For the third night in a row, she was the last of the mechanics to go home, staying after the store closed to make up for the hours she had missed the week before.

Truth was, she didn't mind. The money was shit, but working at Johnny Sprockets wasn't about the paycheck. These days, fixing bikes was just about the only thing she still managed to enjoy. There was something about the work – wrestling with gears and spokes, up to her elbows in the gray, oily gunk that was the blood and sweat of any honest machine – that recharged her. That made it easier to go home at the end of the day. And even if the evening turned bad, with too much liquor in her stomach and too much blood in the bathroom sink, there was still reason to get up in the morning. At the shop, she had something to work on, something to fix. As trivial as it seemed, the work mattered. Each frame that she assembled, each set of wheels that she aligned, each busted up and rusted wreck of a bike that she managed to salvage – it meant something.

"Hey Bella!" Angela's voice rang out across the sales floor. "There's someone here to see you."

Bella jerked her hands out of sink and turned off the water. She hadn't even heard the door open. "What?"

"There's a guy here to see you!" the store manager called back.

Wiping her hands haphazardly on the gray apron around her waist, Bella stepped away from the sink and headed quickly for the front of the store. Her feet skirted around tools and bicycle parts, then the bikes themselves as she turned down the first aisle, squinting through handlebars and spokes to make out the figure who now stood next to the checkout counter. Angela, who was arranging a display at the head of the aisle, arched a neatly-penciled eyebrow as Bella rushed past.

But the sight that greeted her was not what she expected. The man standing by the front door had blond, not bronze hair, stood about three inches too short, and carried fifteen extra pounds around his waistline.

"Oh," she let out, her shoes squeaking to a stop on the tiled floor. It took her a moment to recognize the guy. "Hi. Something wrong with the Cannondale?"

"No, no, it's fine," the customer replied somewhat sheepishly. "But I forgot to get my license back from you after the test ride."

"Uh – yeah. Okay, hang on a second. I've got it in the back." Retrieving the license from a locked drawer in the workroom, she muttered "no problem" as the man gratefully wished her a good night. Turning back, her eyes landed on Angela. The tall, olive-skinned woman was watching her with amusement playing at the corners of her eyes. Suddenly, Bella felt too self-conscious to hold Angela's gaze. Ducking silently into the next aisle, she scowled at her nerves. _Since when are you so eager for him to show up again?_

Collecting her messenger bag and umbrella from the back, she approached the front of the store for a second time. "All right, I'm done for the night," she said quickly. Angela was now shuffling through various receipts and order slips piled up around the resister. She turned as Bella walked past, casting an appraising glance at her half-opened umbrella. "Headed for your other job?"

"No, I'm off this weekend," Bella replied, a few feet short of the front door.

"That's gotta feel good. You're only there part time, right?"

"Yeah."

"I used to tend bar. Good money, huh?"

"Helps pay the bills."

"You live up north?" Angela continued.

"Uh, yeah," Bella repeated, unsure of where the conversation was going. "North of Halsted and Belmont."

"Well, I drove in this morning. I could give you a ride. It's on my way." Angela slammed the register shut and reached for her shoulder bag. Its bright, multi-colored fabric clashed spectacularly with her equally bright pink and green t-shirt.

Bella glanced out of the shop window, hesitating. Rain beat steadily against the glass and pavement, blurring the darkened silhouettes of cars and people as they rushed by. It was just past nine o'clock, and on a rainy Saturday night like this one, the El was likely to be packed full of wet passengers. Though she only had a few stops to go, the commute was looking about as pleasant as a dentist's appointment. On the other hand, Angela's offer threw her off guard. The older woman was a good supervisor – didn't play favorites, set clear expectations and wasn't above getting her hands dirty when they were short a mechanic. But she and Bella had never had more than a working relationship. A ride home just seemed out of character.

"Come on," Angela said. The car keys in her hand jingled against the thick copper bracelet around her wrist. "It's about to start pouring, and I'll just take Belmont to Lake Shore after I drop you off."

"Uh... sure. Thanks."

They closed the shop and walked to the car in silence. Sliding into the passenger seat of the old, green Camry, Bella nearly sat on a red plastic baby rattle.

"Oh, sorry," Angela said, tossing her purse and umbrella into the back seat. Bella's umbrella sat at her feet, dripping water onto a rubber portrait of Garfield the Cat. "You can just throw that somewhere. This car is a total mess."

Bella studied the toy in her lap as they pulled out into traffic. "How's your... nephew, right?"

Angela's bright grin flashed in the darkened interior. "Yeah. He's great. Especially now that he's sleeping through the night. It's not so bad for me, I have ear plugs, but his parents are finally starting to look human in the morning."

"He's four months now?"

"Yeah, but he's huge! Already filling out a nine month sleeper. Pretty soon he'll be running around and turning the place into an even bigger sty than it already is."

Bella nodded, scratching at the scab in the back of her head. It was still healing and itched like crazy sometimes.

"But it's all worth it," Angela went on. "He's a gorgeous kid, and even with all of us living together, I still get to spoil him and let his parents worry about the feeding and the diapers. The place is crowded, but it's good to have family around."

Bella bit her lip and turned to stare out of the car window. They had stopped at a red light, and she studied the buildings of the intersection intently.

"So," Angela began again, "what happened last week?"

She blinked at the sudden turn in the conversation. "Yeah, uh – I'm sorry about that. I don't know what the hell hit me. Probably food poisoning. Something I picked up at the bar. I should've called, but I literally didn't leave the bathroom for about twelve hours." She knew she was rambling, and licked her lips. "I'm not on the schedule, but I can come in tomorrow too if–"

"No, it's okay," Angela cut her off. "I'm not chewing you out. With anybody else, I would have been pissed, but you're the one person I can usually count on to be on time. I'm just asking. You kinda disappeared, and a few of us were – " she paused and favored Bella with another long look. "Well, we got worried."

"Oh." Bella shifted in her seat. "Sorry."

Thankfully, Angela didn't press any further. Since re-appearing at work, Bella had had to explain her absence on three separate occasions, and the story sounded more and more stale each time. In one crazy moment, she had considered telling someone the truth, if only to avoid more sympathetic looks and inquiries about her health. Luckily, she'd realized the sheer idiocy of that idea in time. How exactly would she explain the last two weeks to anyone?

_Well, you'll never believe it, but I finally hired a hitman to knock off the guys who killed my sister. Then I followed him into a dark alley and – surprise! Turns out he's a fuckin' vampire. But it's not what you think – he's not all bloody fangs and creature of the night. He reads books, uses big words. And he's trying to be good. Says he only kills the bad guys. _

No, she definitely couldn't say anything like that. People at work thought she was crazy enough already.

"Left at the next light?" Angela's voice startled Bella out of her thoughts, and she glanced up to survey their surroundings.

"No, the one after. Then make your first right. My house is at the end of the block."

As the car turned onto her street, the headlights flashed over a hooded figure on the sidewalk. For the second time that evening, Bella felt sure of who it was. She held her breath as the car caught up to his quickly-moving form, but as they passed, the man looked up, and she exhaled sharply. His dark skin was nearly the color of his sweatshirt. _Wrong again. _

"Someone you know?" Angela asked.

"No," she replied, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "I just thought – That's my house right up here."

The car came to a stop next to the curb. Gathering her bag and umbrella, Bella reached for the door handle. "Thanks for the ride. So you want me to come in tomorrow?"

"Nah, it's all right," the other woman replied. "I'll have enough people on the floor. Thanks, though."

"Yeah, sure. Night."

"See ya'."

The car pulled out into the street, and Bella hopped back to avoid the spray of water that shot out from under the tires.

Locking the front door behind her, she left the boots and umbrella in a corner of the foyer. Padding into the den, her damp toes left ghostly prints on the floorboards, and she paused to rub the arch of one foot against the ankle of the other. The television and futon couch stood in silent welcome, but she turned away from them at the last minute. Back in the kitchen, she rummaged around the cupboard for a moment before pulling out jars of peanut butter and strawberry jam, along with a loaf of bread. On another night, she would have gone for the refrigerator, too, and washed dinner down with a few beers. Instead, she cracked her knuckles in front of its long silver handle and turned to the stove to make a pot of herbal tea. With the plate in one hand and the tea mug in the other, she settled onto the futon in silence, balancing her food on its wide wooden armrest. Biting into the sandwich, she chewed each sweet and sticky piece slowly, thoroughly, licking the corners of her mouth between bites to catch any spare crumbs.

Her eyes flickered over to the thin plastic case that had been sitting on top of the television for the last three days. Twice she almost put it on, but stopped at the last minute, unable to shake the feeling that she should call Edward first, see if he wanted to come over and watch it together. But she couldn't quite gather the nerve – she wouldn't be able to blame this phone call on alcohol.

"Oh bullshit," she muttered to herself. "You weren't that smashed. You knew what you were doing." And it was true. She'd been drinking, but the call wasn't some late-night drunk dial. She'd picked up the phone for one reason – Edward was right. His analysis of her non-existent social life had been as accurate as it was tactless.

The distance between her and the rest of the world was deliberate. Most people she intentionally kept at arm's length. Some had once been friends. Others, like Angela, could have been, but it didn't matter anymore. Those friendships required a compromise she wasn't willing to make. She couldn't – no, she wouldn't, she wouldn't put on the mask they all wanted to see pretend that she was all right, that she was moving on that her sister's death was some unfortunate accident that she could get over. She couldn't betray Alice's memory like that. As long as James Pelzer and Pat Taylor were living in this city, breathing the same air, Bella would remain haunted. But most people couldn't accept that, refused to see the truth, so she had nothing more to say to them.

Then there was Edward. A stranger, a hitman, a _vampire_ … but also the only person who didn't treat her like a paranoid lunatic. Who looked her in the eye when she talked about Alice. Who hadn't just taken her word for it, either. He had gone and looked for evidence. Convinced himself that it wasn't an overdose, that the cops had lied. He said that he cared, and she didn't understand why, but it didn't even matter. She wasn't the only one on Alice's side anymore.

But why did it have to be a vampire??

"Beggars can't be choosers," she whispered into the dark.

***

She slipped out of consciousness easily, falling asleep to the steady drumming of rain on the old roof above. But in the early hours of the morning, she awoke again with a jerk. Gasping, she sat up, eyes flickering around the still, dark room.

_It's all right. You're home. It's just a dream._

Sighing heavily, she slumped forward until the tips of her hair pooled onto the bed. Blood pounded through her temples. Air scraped against her throat as her lungs heaved it in and out.

_It's just a dream. It didn't happen. You're okay._

Except that she wasn't okay. It had happened. Just not on that night.

Untangling her legs from the comforter, she made her way across the room and down the hall. Her throat felt dry and tight. Her hands were shaking. In the bathroom, she squeezed her eyes shut, splashing cold water on her face and neck. It didn't help. Alice's face still flashed across her eyelids, no matter how tightly she squeezed them shut.

This time, her sister looked sad. Not frightened, not lifeless, just...sad. As sad as Bella ever remembered seeing her. Her hazel eyes had turned coal-black. They glistened with regret and disappointment.

Bella looked up into the mirror above the sink, as if the sight of her own reflection could clear the vision away. But the lights were out, and what she saw in the darkened mirror was even more disorienting. Her chin molded into her sister's jaw. Alice's pointed nose above her own lips. Her right eyebrow suddenly bisected by a small, diagonal scar. She remembered how Alice had gotten that scar, stumbling into a low-hanging branch while they chased each other around a park one summer.

"Bella. Bella," she said out loud, "you're okay. Go back to bed. It's okay." But her voice shook, and she didn't believe a single word.

_Fuck. Alice. Why Alice? Why not me? _

"Stop it," she whispered through clenched teeth. "Come on, stop it. Don't start this again."

_There's nothing to stop. This is who you are._

"No," she muttered back. "No, it's not, it's not!" Grabbing the bar of soap from the edge of the sink, she hurled it at the mirror.

It bounced against the smooth glass, and at that moment, something crashed, rattling the walls above her.

Bella jumped in surprise, then froze.

_What the hell?_

The sound had come from upstairs. Was someone breaking into the house? But she heard no footsteps, no sounds of human movement. She held her breath, listening. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Wind rattled the window panes. Rain beat against the side of the house.

Had she imagined it?

She crept out of the bathroom, vigilant for any foreign noises or movement. In the kitchen, she grabbed a knife out of the wooden block by the sink. Pausing in front of the stairs, she listened again. Nothing. If someone had forced their way into the house, they had suddenly become very quiet.

_This better not be another of Edward's socially retarded attempts at saying hello, _she thought, but in truth, would have been grateful to see his face just then.

Climbing up the stairs, each step was silent and painfully slow. Her fingers curled around the knife's plastic handle as she moved down the hallway, dismayed at how much it shook in her hand. Only after the third step did she noticed that the floor was wet against her bare feet. She looked down, frowning. In the dark, she could just make out the traces of a large stain trailing down the beige carpet. Slowly, she bent down and probed it with her free hand. Her fingers came back slick with water. It smelled like rain and rotting wood.

"The fuck...?" Her eyes traced the stain to the very end of the hallway, and suddenly, she could hear it. The soft tap-tap-tap of water dripping onto the floor.

She darted forward, throwing open the door to Alice's bedroom. The light switch flipped up and down uselessly, but the mess of drywall on the floor was visible without any light. Looking up in dismay, she stared at the dark hole that had formed at the edge of the ceiling, next to the closet. It was more than a foot in diameter, framed by cracked paint that hung in strips around its jagged edges. Water was dripping – no, pouring onto the floor, forming a giant puddle that had soaked into the carpets. A massive stain circled the damage on the ceiling like a brown, deformed halo. Stomach twisting with dread, she followed one of its branches to another leak in the opposite corner of the room. The ceiling there was still intact, but bowing under the weight of collecting water, which dripped steadily onto the bookshelf below.

Another piece of drywall broke off the ceiling and fell onto the pile in front of her, followed immediately by the sound of something crumpling in the closet. Stumbling past the mess on the floor, she pushed the closet door aside. Though it was too dark to see, her eyes widened in horrified disbelief as she reached for the contents.

Wet. Everything was wet. Delicate handmade dresses, favorite t-shirts, vintage wool sweaters – everything her hands landed on dripped with cold, mildew-scented water.

But those were just clothes, they could be washed. It was the boxes below that she feared for the most. She dropped to the floor, banging her knees painfully on the metal runners of the closet door, and tried dragging the nearest box out. But the cardboard had absorbed too much water, and her fingers ripped through the top flap on the first tug. She tried again, reaching around to pull the box out by its back corners. It slid forward a few inches, but jammed against the runners. Wedging her hands in between the box and the floor, she strained to pick it up, but the water had made it heavy, too heavy for her to lift.

With a frustrated cry, she tore off what remained of the flaps and dug inside. Her hands came back clutching wet paper – she couldn't tell if this was the box of old school work that her sister had meticulously collected, or sketches of old European cities from her semester abroad. It didn't matter. The pages were nothing now. Just soggy, shapeless pulp. Her fingers tightened into fists, squeezing water out of the papers. Several drops ran down her forearms and fell to the floor.

Another half-dozen boxes lined the floor of the closet. Alice had brought a few back from college, and the others Bella had packed away when her mother announced that she was "going away for a while." These were filled with pictures, post-it notes, birthday cards – symbols of how intertwined the lives of sisters had once been. She had told herself that the storage was temporary. One day, she would be able to sift through these mementos and get back a piece of what she had lost.

Now, with the remains of the ruined box in front of her, she didn't dare reach for the others. Instead, she backed away from the closet, nearly tripping over the wet remains of the ceiling that littered the floor.

The roof must have started leaking – but when? Days, weeks, months ago even? Damage like that didn't appear over night. How long had she had to notice, to get the roof fixed? How much time had she wasted in her self-absorbed depression, moping around instead of taking care of things that really mattered?

Tears sprung to her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and wouldn't let them out.

"Fix it. Stop fucking crying and go fix it."

The rain soaked her hair and clothes as soon as she stepped outside. Barefoot, she ran around the back of the house to the tiny shed that stood in the corner of the narrow back yard. The inside was a mess, and she had to push through old gardening tools and half empty paint buckets to get to the ladder in the back. Its rungs caught on the handle of a shovel, and she staggered backwards when it came free. She let the ladder fall to the ground and dove back into the shed, cursing the clutter and the lack of light. It took several minutes of blind and frustrated groping to find everything else: a box of long nails, a hammer, and the rolled-up tarp her dad had used to cover up his '78 Mustang in the winters.

Dragging the ladder to the side of the house, she tried to remember how to work the extension mechanism. Metal joints ground in protest as she wrestled them open. When they finally clicked into place, she propped the ladder against the brick wall, where it barely reached the roof gutters. Rolling the tarp around the hammer, she tucked them both under her arm. One hand clutched the box of nails, the other tightened around a wet aluminum rung, and she began to climb.

The roof had leaked once before, when she was in second grade. She still remembered her parents fighting over how to pay for the repairs. In the end, her father had spent two days on top of the house hammering new shingles in place of the ones that had cracked and come apart. She didn't have new shingles now, but she did have the tarp. At least she could get up there and cover up the damage – keep more water out of the house until someone could come out and fix the leak.

By the fifth rung, the tarp was slipping out from under her arm. She paused, tucking it back in, and pressed her arm down tighter. Water trailed down her forehead and temples, dripping from her nose. She shook her head to get the hair out of her eyes, but it only swung back and forth like heavy drapery. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and her body began to protest the cold rain and exertion. Grimacing, she reached for the next rung. Body be damned. This wasn't the time to start whining. She'd done enough of that already.

Pulling herself up blindly, her fingers reached for the next hand hold, but slipped. Before she could recover her grip, the tarp and hammer tumbled down, striking her foot on their way to the ground. The heavy head of the hammer landed on her toe and she flinched back, losing her purchase all together. Her hip and shoulder hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her lungs, and she lay there for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe.

The ground was wet and hard. Rain landed in her mouth as she gasped for air. Christ, how could she be so stupid, so damn incompetent at every fucking thing? Pain shot through her foot as she tried to stand. Wincing, she limped over to the wall and leaned against it heavily.

The rain kept falling, steady as a thousand tiny drums, seeping into any crack or crevice, dripping down, down, down. Up in Alice's room, water soaked through fabric, paper, drywall, cardboard and anything else in its way. It didn't care that those things were precious, irreplaceable. It just dripped and spread like acid, dissolving the last physical bond she had to her sister.

She had to do something. She needed some help.

***

Edward felt good. Damn good. He was speeding down an empty road with both windows open, letting in the wind and rain. The air whipping through the car was cold, but he didn't mind. The blood in his stomach felt hot and heavy, and it warmed his insides like a slowly-burning fire. The heat loosened his shoulders and cleared his mind; it took an edge off the tension growing in his gut. This fix was only temporary – he knew that perfectly well. But it would take a few hours for the nutrients to break down into fuel, and be pumped out to the last of his muscles. A few hours before his body discovered how badly it had been deceived.

He had spent the night in Wisconsin, just north of the state border, stalking a forest preserve for prey. The trees were practically teeming with deer, but after a cursory sweep, he caught the scent of something much more interesting. Carnivores were a rarity in these woods, but well worth the effort. Their blood was thicker somehow – more nourishing, more...bloody. Something as small as a lynx was worth the blood of two fully grown deer, and he couldn't drink that much in one sitting anyway. Experience had proven that his stomach could hold considerably more than the average human's, but it was not bottomless.

In the end, he found a nest of them – a mother and three cubs. He killed the mother first, then the others. Each creature struggled in his grasp, writhing and snapping with useless teeth and claws, but he barely even noticed. All he knew was need and hunger and blood.

Now, back in the car, he drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel and sang along with the radio, filling in with nonsense syllables when he didn't know the words. The dull rumbling of the car's engine flared into a roar as he sped through a serpentine stretch of road. When the asphalt straightened again, he shifted gears and slipped the clutch for a final burst of speed. The back wheels skidded a few inches before regaining traction, and he nearly laughed with the sheer joy of losing control.

Suddenly, he wished that he wasn't alone in this car, that someone else were here to enjoy the thrill of doubling the speed limit at three in the morning. Would she appreciate the rush as much as he did? Somehow, he imagined that she would. Bella didn't seem like the kind of person to shy away from intense experiences. What would it take, he wondered, to convince her to join him on one of these drives?

He'd had several such thought experiments in the four days since they parted at her doorstep. Thumbing through a favorite novel, he found himself reading certain passages out loud, pausing at the more insightful or thought-provoking phrases and wishing to know what she would think of them. He wondered if she had watched the documentary he'd given her, and if so, whether the same themes he had found so compelling resonated with her as well. Walking past Steppenwolf, he paused at a flyer for the theater's newest production, and toyed with the idea of buying two tickets, but changed his mind at the last minute. There was, as he had found through recent research on the subject, such a thing as coming on too strong. If he hadn't managed to do so already, he didn't want to risk it.

One thing was painfully obvious – he wanted to see her again. As strange or unwise as befriending a human seemed, the lure of company after so many years of solitude was proving too strong to ignore. And there was something else, something deeper that pulled him forward. An urge that he couldn't verbalize, couldn't even wrap his head around. Something even more compelling than the desire to discuss film or literature. He didn't understand it at all, and any attempts at analysis only heightened the anxiety. Instead, he tried to formulate a plan for another encounter.

Not that he had too many ideas_. See you around_ was a sufficiently vague parting to leave him with little understanding of what he ought to do next. How, exactly, were they supposed to see each other around? They didn't have a common social circle, or frequent the same bars or grocery stores. Was she dismissing him, then? But no, Bella was not one to mince words. "See you around" had a decidedly different ring to it than "Stop following me" or "What part of fuck off don't you understand?"

But then what _had_ she meant? That she would arrange the next meeting? Or that he ought to? Why hadn't she spoken more clearly, damn it?

At first, he'd decided to wait and give her a chance to call, but by the weekend, it seemed likely he had missed some subtle clue, and was losing his opportunity. After dissecting every word of their conversation that he could remember, he had decided to call her the next evening. He would say hello, inquire about her health, and ask if she'd had a chance to watch the documentary. Whether she said yes or no, he would recommend something else, maybe something playing in the theaters. That would provide a perfectly reasonable excuse for them to meet again.

Half-way through "I Am the Walrus," his phone rang. He turned down the radio and glanced at the display. Bella's number blinked at him, and his heartbeat quickened. For an instant, he wondered if it was possible for her to know that he had been thinking about her.

He shook his head, staring at the phone as it rang. Every greeting he had rehearsed vanished from his mind. On the sixth ring, he turned the music off all together, and finally answered.

"Hello?" The word came out stiffly, and he grimaced.

"Hey – Edward, it's me. It's Bella."

"Yes, I know." He frowned at the thin, strained tone of her voice. Something was wrong. "What's the matter?"

"I need some help," she blurted out.

He gripped the phone tightly. "What happened? Are you all right? Is it your head injury?"

"Yes – no, it's fine. I'm fine, it's my house."

"Your house?" he repeated dumbly.

"The roof's leaking. The ceiling's coming down in Alice's room. I think there's damage up on the roof, but I can't get up there." The pitch of her voice was rising steadily. "Look, I know it's late, and you probably have better shit to do but – God, there's so much water and it just keeps coming, and I don't know what else – "

"I'm driving into the city now," he interrupted, working to keep the excitement out of his tone. "I can be at your house in –" he glanced at the dash "– eight minutes."

She took a deep, shaky breath. "O – Okay. Thanks."

He shifted into a lower gear, and the engine roared as the car accelerated around tight turn.

Maybe, after he helped her fix the roof, they could watch the movie together. Not that he had ever fixed a roof before.

**********

Hope y'all liked it. I'll do my best to get the next update out sooner. For chapter 13, who wants to see more E&B, and who wants to see more agents?


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Well, looks like everyone gets their wish: more agents, AND more E and B action.

As always, many thanks to the lovely people who help get each chapter out of the gates: AerosolDoc, Twilightzoner, and the ever helpful members of the Coven (I promise it isn't a cult). Thanks also to you, dear reader.

Mark Britt paced up and down a long hallway on the 12th floor of the J. Edgar Hoover building, eyeing the Assistant Director's office door with trepidation. He gripped half a dozen case folders tightly in his hand, and his fingers were starting to cramp. Dropping into a chair in front of the AD's office, he flipped through the reports for the third time in the last twenty minutes.

What if he was wrong? What if he managed to sell the AD on the biggest case in the department's history and then failed to deliver? When Angela Carter had brought him the first file, he'd blown it off, fed up with "leads" that went nowhere. But he did go back to read it – there wasn't exactly anything more promising to go on – and somewhere between putting his two-year-old to bed and a round of good, albeit predictable, intercourse with his wife, it hit him. He had spent the last 18 months paying his dues in the Vampire Crimes department – up to his neck in dried up bodies and paperwork, laughing off the supposedly good-natured ribbing of his fellow agents, waiting for the Assistant Director to nod and breathe some life back into his career – but it wasn't going to work like that. He needed to pull his own ass out of the gutter. Do something unexpected, unconventional. Impress people. And if he'd gotten it right, professional redemption was the stack of cases he now held in his sweaty hands.

To be fair, his own idiocy had gotten him here in the first place. Getting busted with a DUI while he was supposed to be on surveillance had gotten him pulled off Narcotics so fast it'd given him whiplash. No matter what bullshit the PR people fed the media, everybody knew that the guys in V-Crime were far from the FBI's best and brightest, and in the eyes of his superiors, Mark Britt had become the latest fuck-up for the job. A Congressman for an uncle was the only reason he even got to keep his badge, and he knew it. McLeary, his partner, hadn't gotten so lucky. Last he'd heard, the poor bastard was a traffic cop somewhere in podunk, Maryland. But Mark Britt wasn't going to end up like that. He would earn his reputation back, one blood-sucker at a time.

He reshuffled the files in his lap and forced his foot to stop bouncing against the floor. When the door to the AD's office opened, he sprung out of his seat, barely keeping the paperwork from tumbling onto the floor.

Kristen, the director's secretary, smirked as he fought to tuck the folders back under his arm. "Special Agent Britt. The Assistant Director will see you now."

He scowled and followed her into the office suite. As she settled back at her desk, he paused in front of the AD's closed door. She smiled at him again, a friendlier smile this time, and nodded. "Go ahead. She said to send you in."

Mark replied with a curt nod and pushed the door open.

Assistant Director Price looked up from her computer as he entered. She was a tall, thin woman in her fifties who always wore dark pant suits and never drank at the holiday party. Her salt and pepper hair was cut into a straight bob that reached just past her narrow jaw and pointed chin. Removing a pair of black reading glasses, she gestured to one of the two chairs in front of her desk.

"Have a seat, Agent Britt."

Mark crossed the office with large, firm steps, and lowered himself into the offered chair.

"You have an ID on that Jane Doe yet?" the director asked.

"Yes ma'am. Elizabeth Robbins, 47 years old, from Crofton, Maryland. The husband confirmed the ID this morning."

"Any relation to either of the bodies from last week?"

"No ma'am, not that we've been able to glean."

The director pursed her lips. "Then what is it that you are here to tell me, Agent Britt?"

Licking his lips once, Mark placed the case files carefully on the director's desk. "There appears to be some vampire activity in Chicago that we weren't previously aware of," he began.

AD Price spared the case files a brief glance and looked back at him.

He cleared his throat and continued. "These are unsolved missing persons reports from around Cook County. Most victims were reported missing within twelve hours, and seem to have disappeared in the middle of the night. Four out of the seven have prior records, mostly for possession or petty theft. The other three are working professionals, upper middle class types with jobs downtown and nice houses in Evanston and Naperville. The latest victim – " he opened the top file " – was reported missing almost two weeks ago."

A chime sounded from the computer, and the assistant director glanced at the monitor. Mark waited as she typed a few words, navigated the mouse and typed some more. He was beginning to sweat.

"The thing about these cases – "

The director frowned and held up an index finger, not taking her eyes away from the screen. He bit back an objection and fell silent. As she continued to type, he forced himself to not fidget.

With a final click of the mouse, AD Price turned her attention away from the computer. "All right then, Agent Britt, you were explaining to me how a handful of missing persons cases in a city of ten million is going to lead us to our very first live vampire."

"I don't – I'm not suggesting that, ma'am. But these circumstances do seem noteworthy. People who go missing in Chicago usually turn up as kidnapping victims or dead bodies in the river with bullet holes in their heads. These – " he gestured at the files in front of him " – don't fit any of the usual patterns."

"They don't fit the usual vampire feeding patterns either, Agent Britt. As you surely know, vampire victims are usually found within a few days of the attack. These animals hide the bodies just well enough to give themselves a head start. They don't bother with a full burial. The fact that your cases have been missing for months suggests to me that we're not looking at vampire attacks at all."

"Yes, but there are some similarities. The timing and regularity of each disappearance, for one thing. They all occurred at night, and within three to five weeks of each other. And I know," he hurried to add as the AD pursed her lips in thinning patience, "I know that the typical vampire feeds every seven to ten days, but what if we're not dealing with a typical vampire here? What if, instead of killing each victim, it keeps them around for a while, tied up somewhere for a month or two so it can feed more than once without worrying about finding a new body?"

The director's eyes snapped back to him, and she frowned tightly. "Look Agent Britt, I appreciate the amount of time and energy you have obviously spent looking into this. Really, I do. But our investigative strategy was developed by people with far more experience than you. Not to mention more success in the field. It is your job to adhere to that strategy. You find bodies, you compile the forensics, and you write reports for your superiors. We have enough public pressure on this department as it is. We don't need to start any mass hysteria by attributing cases to vampire kidnappers without any proof. You find me one of these bodies, bitten and drained, and then we'll talk about your theories."

When he didn't move, still trying to compose a proper response, the AD pushed the case folders to the edge of her desk.

"You're dismissed, Agent Britt."

***

As Edward got out of his car at the curb in front of Bella's house, his steps felt light and elastic, as though the ground were made of rubber.

The front door slammed, and Bella came hurrying down the porch steps. An unbuttoned raincoat barely covered her pajamas, but its yellow hood was pulled up over her forehead, concealing her face. A blue bundle of plastic was tucked under her arm, and she pressed it stiffly to her side. She approached him with tense steps, moving quickly despite an obvious limp.

They stopped in front of each other in the middle of the yard. "What happened to your leg?" he asked.

"My foot," she replied, her voice quiet and unsteady. "I fell off the ladder."

_You should have called me sooner,_ he opened his mouth to say, but she had already turned away. "Come on, we have to go around back," she muttered.

He moved to follow the tracks her feet made in the wet grass. They walked around the house in silence. Nervous eagerness mounted inside him with each step – nervous because, though he could swing a hammer just fine, he didn't know the first thing about carpentry. Eager because … well, he didn't know what he felt eager for, exactly.

In the back yard, a ladder lay on the ground next to a hammer and a box of nails. Bella moved to pick it up, but he stopped her. "I won't need that."

She hesitated, her expression stolid as she considered his words. Then she stepped back and jerked the blue tarp out from under her arm, offering it to him. Rain drops splattered against the plastic, running down its wrinkled surface and falling to the ground. When he reached out to take it, their hands touched, and as she let go, her wet skin slipped under his fingers. His grip tightened, crinkling the tarp. Bella drew her hand back, and their eyes met for a split second before darting apart again.

His glance landed on the tarp, and he examined it intently. "What – uh – what would you like me to do with this?" The words came tumbling out of his mouth like lumps of wet clay.

Her shoulders sagged. "Fuck, I don't even know. The one time I remember the roof leaking, it was missing shingles." She glanced up, her forehead creasing. "I figure – I dunno, if you could get up there and see anything that looks messed up, it might do some good to nail this thing over it." She gestured half-heartedly toward the tarp. "You know, cover it up or something."

He nodded and took several steps back. That sounded simple enough. Wrapping the tarp around the hammer, he eyed the edge of the roof some twenty feet above, and with a tight flick of the wrist, sent the bundle sailing over it. It landed with a soft thump and rolled a few feet down the angled surface before catching on the lone boiler pipe that protruded from the roof. Satisfied, he took the cardboard box of nails from the ground and stuffed the entire thing into the back pocket of his jeans.

Bella had watched each of his movements without comment, but now the anxious lines on her face gave way to skepticism. "I don't think that's such a good idea," she said, eyeing the arrangement doubtfully.

He pulled out a nail. "These will not hurt me," he said, pressing the pointed end into his thumb. The skin began to curve under the pressure, but did not break. He looked past the nail at Bella's incredulous expression, and jabbed his thumb a few times for effect. "See?"

Her eyes were glued to the point of contact between his skin and the sharpened metal. He handed the nail to her, not wanting to slip it back into his pocket. His skin may have been impenetrable, but the denim of his jeans was not.

"There are certain advantages to my condition," he said with a soft smile as she plucked the nail from his fingers. Bella didn't reply.

He turned to the house. A light hop onto the windowsill, a leap upward, and he was hanging by a slanted beam that lined the edge of the roof. Swinging sideways, he flung his legs in an upward arc, letting go of the beam just as his feet crested his head. The momentum of the swing propelled him through the air, and he twisted to land on top of the house in a crouch. The slope of the roof was steep, but his shoes gripped the rough, gritty shingles well enough. Straightening, he took a few small steps to retrieve the hammer and tarp, and looked down. Bella was staring up at him, mouth ajar, and he smiled again, unreasonably pleased with such a trivial display of acrobatics. But he had never had an audience before.

***

When they went inside, Edward couldn't help but feel a small sense of triumph at entering as a guest rather than a trespasser. Seeing the pile of footwear by the doorway, he hurried to remove his own, noting with pleasure that this was a custom he and Bella shared. As he stepped out of his running shoes, Bella pulled off her raincoat and flung it over the banister of the stairs. She was wearing a different shirt than the one he had seen her sleeping in before. This one was a deep blue color, nearly black. The way it wrapped around her body reminded him of a photograph he had once seen – a black and white image of ocean water smothering a pearl. He felt a sudden urge to reach out and slide his hand under the shirt's thin straps, which bisected her shoulder blades. As thin as she was, the cloth seemed to bind her body too tightly.

She turned to face him, her mouth and forehead lined with uncertainty. "Upstairs," she muttered. "There's some boxes upstairs. They need to come down, but I can't … Could you – "

"Of course," he answered. "Where?"

"I'll show you." She began to climb the stairs, one hand on the banister, still favoring her right foot

Scowling at his ineptitude – he'd somehow managed to forget that she was hurt – he leapt three steps to stand beside her. "Let me help you."

She glanced at his offered arm, hesitating, then shook her head lightly. "No, it's all right. I got it."

He let his arm drop, unable to keep the frown off his face. Again, she was rejecting him.

Bella's brow twitched, and she looked away. "I mean – thanks. I just – I'd like do it myself." Her voice was soft, without the edge he was expecting. It requested his compliance rather than demanding it.

"You'd like to do it yourself," he repeated. _She needs to do it for herself_, his mind echoed. As Bella nodded, his frown eased, and he stepped aside.

Upstairs, moisture from the carpet seeped into his socks, but he barely noticed as he followed her to the end of the hallway. The pants she wore were an inch too long, their cuffs dragging along the ground as she walked. They sat low on her hips, the waistband swaying side to side with each step, a pendulum of green and yellow cloth. His eyes followed the movement, momentarily unable to focus on anything else.

At the last door, she stopped. "There's a closet–" she began. "This is – "

"Your sister's room," he offered, seeing the difficulty with which she formed her words.

Her jaw tightened, and she ducked her head. "The boxes are in the closet. Will you take them to the den?"

He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room smelled of mildew and wet drywall. Eight days ago, when he had first come here, he noted how sterile the space looked, how unused. Fastidious order was something he normally appreciated, yet the arrangement of objects in this room spoke more of a lack of life than respect for organization.

"Hm," was the only thing he said of the sight before him now. The crumbling ceiling, the mess of drywall on the floor, the leak forming in the opposite corner of the room – it inspired a stronger reaction, but he held his tongue to avoid upsetting Bella, who stood behind him in the hallway. The sight was certainly dismal… and yet, he could help but feel that it was also, in a relative sense, an improvement. At least something was finally happening in this room.

Stepping around the worst of the rubbish, he slid the closet door out of the way. Among shoes and other items he didn't recognize, several brown, unmarked boxes were stacked haphazardly on the closet floor. While he had been curious about the closet's contents before, and even went as far as to peek inside, he did not linger now, too eager to complete the task at hand. The first box flopped awkwardly in his hands as he picked it up, the soggy cardboard barely managing to hold together, so he moved quickly to take it to the den. On the second and third trip, he balanced two boxes at a time.

Bella did not go with him. She stood leaning against a wall on the other side of the hallway, and he could feel her eyes trained on his back each time he moved toward the stairwell. When he approached on the way back, though, she wouldn't return his gaze, studying the wet carpet or a patch of skin on her hand instead.

He closed the bedroom door behind him, a final box in hand, and she pushed away from the wall without a word. He slowed his pace as she followed him down the stairs. In the den, he set the box on the floor next to the others and stood in the darkness as she made her way to the lamp in the corner of the room. Watching her halting but determined gait, he fought the urge to go and turn it on for her. But, in all likely-hood, her reaction to this display of chivalry would be no different than the one earlier when he tried to help her up the stairs. It was, he supposed, a matter of control. The less of it life granted her, the tighter she clung to what little she could still manage. This compulsion he could understand.

With a click, the lamp flared to life, coloring the room with its soft, yellow glow. Bella stepped around the unfolded futon and sank slowly to the floor among the boxes. She reached for the nearest one but did not open it, letting her hand rest against the wet cardboard flaps. Edward sat down as well, crossing his legs under him, and grimaced absently as the wet fabric of his jeans pressed against his ankles.

For a while, they said nothing. Bella's eyes drifted from one box to another, her face grey and expressionless. More than anything, she looked exhausted. He followed her gaze, wondering if she would speak first or if he ought to, but his mind had gone blank – he had no idea what to say. Getting up on the roof, hammering in a dozen nails, moving some boxes – these were tasks he could to handle. Now…well, he couldn't help but feel that he was outstaying his purpose. But he did not want to leave.

The silence began to weigh on him. Bella seemed to recede farther and farther into herself, slumping forward like a marionette cut from her strings. He searched her face for some recognition, some acknowledgement of his presence, but when their eyes met, her blank look glossed over him as if he were a shadow on the wall. Suddenly, he was seized with an urge to shake her, to dig his hands into her bare shoulders and force her out of this stupor. Purpose be damned, he didn't come here for manual labor! He wanted to talk to her, to have her respond. She was a live person, not some character in a film, not a figment of his imagination. He wanted – no, he needed more than to simply sit there and stare at her.

He opened his mouth, intending to say something useful or profound, but instead, the most inane of all questions popped out. "Are you going to call someone?"

Bella's chin jerked forward. Her eyes refocused on his face, her forehead creasing with confusion.

"About the roof, I mean," he clarified, cringing inwardly. He should have kept his mouth shut.

"Yeah," she shook her head slowly, her voice impassive. "Tomorrow. It's my day off."

"Good, good. You should." The words seemed to be coming out involuntarily now. "I don't know much about home repair, I have always rented, but from the look of things up there, it will not be a trivial job. Apart from damage to the shingles, the wood underneath is rotting. That entire section will probably need to be replaced. It must have been leaking for quite some – " He stopped, finally noticing the growing dismay in her expression.

She dropped her eyes to the floor. "I should've gone up there." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Though he'd heard every syllable, he asked, "Pardon?"

"Upstairs," she said. "Before you took that book, I hadn't been upstairs for almost a year. If I'd gone up there, if I'd paid more attention … I would've noticed a leak, I would've noticed _something_." Twisting her hands in her lap, she pursed her lips into a tight, disparaging line.

"Why didn't you?"

Her face snapped up again. "Because! Because I was too busy crying my eyes out down here. Because I come home and get drunk to fall asleep. Because I do this – " she thrust an upturned wrist at him "–instead of thinking about my little sister. Why the fuck do you think?" She pushed the last words out through clenched teeth, blinking furiously.

He shifted uncomfortably, didn't even bother to get defensive at her tone. Words were crowding the tip of his tongue, words he had been mulling over for the last three days. "Bella, I – I've been reconsidering – " He stopped to rub the back of his neck. "Some of the things I said to you – about the choices you have made – they were not entirely accurate."

"Yes, they were," she nodded fiercely. "Spot-fucking-on. Alice is dead, and she's gonna stay that way. And I couldn't even take care of her things. Fuck." A sob sounded in the back of her throat but she choked it back, her hands tightening into fists. "What's wrong with me? I can't even go into her room, I can't even look at pictures." The anger in her voice was dying out, giving way to something darker, more despairing. Her next words were little more than a whisper. "You were right. It's a waste. My life is a fucking waste."

No," he said quickly. "No. That isn't true. That wasn't what I said to begin with, and – "

"Yeah, it was," she muttered. "You said – "

"It doesn't matter what I said. I was wrong."

Her expression was raw, rebellious, and imploring all at once.

"I was wrong," he repeated, softer.

_How?_ Her lips formed the word, but expelled nothing more than a gust of air.

His brow furrowed, and he swallowed. Until now, the notion had been something that he'd examined exclusively in the privacy of his own head. The more he'd thought about Bella, reflecting on the evolving interaction between them, the more he had become aware of a nagging sensation in the back of his head. Something was off, something about the way he perceived her, the way he'd categorized her situation. Identifying it had come as something of a relief, akin to discovering that he had skipped a page while reading. Still, it was one thing to analyze one's mistakes privately, and entirely another to confess them to the very person they concerned.

He ran a hand over his mouth and shifted again. Bella's expression had lost none of its urgency as she waited for him to speak. "I have met people," he finally said, "whose lives are barely worth the air they breathe. They want to hire me to kill their business rivals, or colleagues, or spouses. Or even their children. You would not believe the depravity of some, the utter lack of shame or decency." Feeling a swell of frustration, he shook his head.

"One man – he wanted me to beat a woman to death. She'd had an affair, and for that, he didn't simply want her dead, he wanted me to make her suffer. Just hearing him speak of it, so righteous in his cruelty, I nearly – " He stopped, turned away, tapped a fist against the floor to dispel the burst of anger. He could feel Bella's eyes boring into the side of his face.

"You… " he began again when his voice was calmer, "You are different. Yes, on some level, you are also seeking vengeance. But it is not your ultimate motivation, not really. You did not come to me to dole out punishment, you came to reclaim your life. To repair it. You … feel … so much, so acutely, that – " He broke off again and let out a clipped sigh. Why were some words so much harder to say than others? They were, after all, just words.

Bella had looked away, the muscles of her jaw and temples clenched tight, and pulsing. When he fell silent, she caught his gaze again, eyes glistening in the dull light, and then it was his turn to study the floorboards.

"The grief you wrestle with … " he said softly, "it nearly crushes you, but still, you have not given up. You resist." He heard her exhale, caught the scent of gathering tears. Lifting his head, he met her gaze with all the gravity and sincerity that he could muster. "This struggle – your struggle – to live well... It is not a waste. It can never be a waste."

Her expression dissolved at his words, and tears began to run freely down her cheeks. She jerked to her feet, stumbling backwards, one hand flying up to her mouth. Each breath became a sharp, uneven gasp as she began to sob out loud. He couldn't stand that sound. Suddenly, he was next to her, reaching out, pulling her shaking body forward and pressing it against his chest. She stiffened at first, but as another sob reverberated though her back and shoulders, he felt her hands unravel and dig themselves into the fabric of his shirt.

Later, he would recall this moment again and again, each time focusing on a different detail: how her hair brushed the underside of his chin; the texture of her bare skin under his fingers; the scent of her tears as his shirt wicked them away from her flushed cheeks; the angles of her arms, the rigid curve of her hip pressing into his thigh. He would remember how, as her grief subsided, he and she began to breathe together, their lungs expanding and falling in synchrony. He would also remember the sound of her pulse, throbbing along her arms and neck and temples, echoing in his ears as he fought to ignore it.

But in this instant, he was not conscious of any of those things, overcome instead by the intensity of her sorrow, and weighed down with it as though it were his own.

They stood in the middle of the room for no more than a few minutes, but when Bella lifted her head and loosened her grip on his shirt, he felt like he had been awoken from an eternal trance. The awkwardness with which she moved snapped him back into place, and he let her go instantly. She continued to cry, but the tears were calmer now, slipping from the corners of her eyes in a trickle rather than a flood.

He lowered his arms uncertainly. Though he was loath to put distance between them, he stepped back to catch a glimpse of her face, searching there for some hint of what, if anything, had just transpired between them. But her expression was one he could not interpret. Her eyes roamed the floor as she wrapped her arms around herself, and he felt a sudden, unreasonable burst of jealousy – those should be his arms. Still, he did not dare to reach for her again.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, sniffing. "I didn't think I'd lose it like that."

He shook his head. "It's all right. I understand – " _I understand despair,_he wanted to say._ I understand helplessness. I understand loneliness. _But the words would not come , he mumbled "I understand that you are sad."

She nodded, bending down to wipe her cheeks with the hem of her camisole. The skin of her torso flashed like a beacon in the dim light, and he looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. No, uncomfortable was not the right word, but he had no better way to describe the vague, restless tension in his chest and his gut at the sight of her bare stomach.

Bella stepped toward the futon, her fingers brushing against his forearm as she passed, and he moved to follow. But as she pushed the comforter and pillow aside, his eyes drifted over the window in the far corner, the one farthest away from the lamp. It should have been dark there, the world outside nearly black compared to the illuminated room. Yet, the glass in the windowpane was losing its opacity, transforming back from mirror to window, lightened by the faint but unmistakable glow of dawn.

He spun to face the kitchen, his eyes landing on the microwave that sat next to the sink. There was a clock in its front panel, and its green digits blinked menacingly back at him.

"Shit," he breathed. "Is that clock accurate?"

"What?" Bella straightened and turned to follow his gaze.

"The clock!" he repeated, his voice rising. "Is that the proper time?"

"Yeah, I … think so," she said, looking back at him. "Why? Are you – do you need to be somewhere?"

"Yes," he answered quietly, any lasting feelings of satisfaction replaced by self-flagellation. How could he have been so careless??

Bella was still watching him, eyebrows arched in expectation.

"Do you have basement?" he asked.

End notes: So, I've been going back and forth on how much to write in EPOV vs. BPOV. Which do you prefer?


	14. Chapter 14

In the instant that Edward stepped toward her, Bella froze, bringing her arms up between them. Had that been enough to discourage him, she might have apologized, tried to explain that she wasn't really the hugging type. But he didn't seem to notice, or maybe he didn't care. His arms slipped around her in one fluid motion; their grip had strength, but it also had solace. She did not resist as he her forward. Instead, she cried.

She cried for her sister, for the nephew she would never know, for the life they had all been deprived of. Her knuckles began to throb with the force of holding on to Edward's shirt, but she couldn't let go. Each sob, each shuddering breath pulled something out of her until it seemed like there'd be nothing left. Then slowly, finally, the tears began to wane, as though the grief that had seeped itself into her very pores had finally run dry.

When she opened her eyes, she was staring into the wrinkled fabric of Edward's shirt. It was damp with rainwater, like his hair, falling forward to brush against her ear. His chin had settled on the crown of her head, so lightly that she might not have known it was there save for the warmth the touch created. The rest of him was warm too – even through the wet cotton gathered tightly in her hands, she could feel the heat radiating off his body. It seemed odd that touching him should feel so normal. The muscles of his chest yielded under the gentle pressure of her forehead; his lungs rose and fell almost in time with hers. If she listened closely, she even could make out the beating of his heart. Each paired thud came less frequently than she would have expected, but otherwise, it sounded like any other heartbeat she'd ever heard. It sounded normal. It sounded human.

She took a deep, cautious breath and lifted her head, letting go of his t-shirt. Edward took a step back, and his arms dropped from her shoulders. Her body was instantly sorry for the loss of warmth, but she didn't move toward him. She couldn't even bring herself to look up into his face, to admit how much his words and presence had meant to her. But somebody had to say something. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't think I'd lose it like that."

"It's all right. I understand – I understand that you are sad."

The simple phrase sounded almost comical, but when she finally looked up and met the full intensity of his gaze, she couldn't laugh. She couldn't even speak, and ducked her head to wipe away the remaining tears on the hem of her camisole. When their eyes met again, his expression had shifted into something more restrained and awkward.

It was silly for them to be standing there, in the middle of the floor, taking turns not saying anything. She moved to the futon and pushed the bedding out of the way. Her hands shook slightly, a combination of nerves and exhaustion. She should probably sleep, she knew that, but going to bed also meant Edward would leave, and all of a sudden, sleep didn't seem all that important. And if she had to guess, Edward wasn't so eager to go anywhere either.

But he hadn't followed her to the futon. Instead he stood rigid, looking into the kitchen, alarm written all over his face. "Shit," he swore, mouth curving into a grimace. There was nothing subtle in that expression, no hint of the man who had just let her sob all over his clothes. "Is that clock accurate?"

She straightened and stared at him. "What?"

"The clock. Is that the proper time?"

She followed his gaze to the microwave, realizing that she had lost all sense of time. 4:54 – when had it gotten so late?

"Is it?"

"Yeah, I … think so. Why? Are you – do you need to be somewhere?"

"Yes." His eyes flashed to the window across the room. "Do you have a basement?"

Frowning, she squinted at the window, but there was nothing on the other side – no prowling intruders, no flashing sirens – only the dark silhouette of the backyard fence, made visible by the barest hint of dawn.

Edward exhaled with a hiss. "Bella. I need a basement. Or some other place that is very dark. Do you have that here?"

She watched him blink rapidly and suddenly remembered what he had said about daylight and his eyes, that the light interfered with his vision. "Yeah. Sort of. It's not really a basement, just some storage space." She paused, chagrined. "It's really cluttered, though. If you want some place dark to sleep, my old bedroom still has curtains and – "

"No. The basement. I would like to go to the basement." He pivoted on one heel, scanning the walls around them, already looking for the door.

"Listen, I'm serious. It's a total mess, there's barely any room to sta– "

"Where is it?"

The tone of his voice brought her up short. "It's... outside. The door is on the side of the house."

His shoulders fell. "Outside," he muttered, glancing back to the window.

Bella frowned; something wasn't adding up. "Why – Why do you need the basement?"

Edward just shook his head. "Take me there."

It took all of her willpower to stand still, to keep her eyes trained on the profile of his face. "Why?"

He whipped his head back to glare at her, burying a hand in his hair. "I told you. The sun bothers my eyes. It hurts my eyes, so I sleep in a dark place."

"I have a sleeping mask."

"No. The basement." Suddenly, he was two inches away from her, his hands curling tightly around her shoulders. "Now, Bella."

She went rigid in his grip, half-expected him to shake her or start shouting. But he didn't. Through clenched teeth, he only said, "Please."

For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then she pulled out of his grasp and muttered, "It's this way," jerking her head toward the far corner of the kitchen.

His feet thudded against the floor as he followed her. Every other time she'd seen him move, those feet had barely made a sound. Now, each heavy step pounded ominously into her ears. In the corner of the kitchen, she pushed a mop and bucket out of the way and fumbled with the lock. Edward hovered behind her, so close that she could feel his heavy breath rippling the hairs on the back of her head. When she pulled the door open, he shrank back.

"Is it far?"

"No." She looked up at the horizon, at the traces of pink and violet that were becoming visible through the clouds.

"Is it locked?"

She nodded.

"Then I will wait here while you open it."

Bella's lips tightened, but she plucked the keys from a nail by the door and stepped outside.

The door to the basement was ten feet down the side of the house. She stepped through the wet, muddy grass on her tiptoes, avoiding a small patch of gravel by habit, barely aware that her feet were even moving. Sliding the key into the weathered lock, she flung open the door and eyed the darkness below.

Calling the room a basement was a stretch. The space was unfinished, just cement floors and walls, not meant for anything other than storage. It barely spanned half the length of the house, and this was where she had come to stow most of her family's possessions after emptying the upper floors. Now, it was crammed so full of stuff that you couldn't take more than two steps away from the stairs before running into aging furniture or stacks of boxes. There wasn't even a proper light fixture, just a lone bulb hanging from the ceiling.

It was a miserable place to spend the day.

She grimaced at the stairs. Sensitive eyes or not, Edward wasn't telling her the truth. She had a hunch of what he was leaving out, but she didn't know for sure, and she didn't know why the man who had let her sob all over his clothes only minutes before suddenly turned into a stranger. He'd frightened her. She didn't like being afraid.

With that thought, she almost turned away from the basement – Edward could do whatever he wanted down there – but her conscience stopped her. After all, he was only here because she'd called and asked for his help, and it wasn't the first time he'd come to her house in the middle of the night to offer assistance. Whatever was happening with him now, she owed him some benefit of the doubt. If he insisted on being in the basement all day, she could at least make some room amid the clutter for him to sit down. So she went downstairs, and by the dim light streaming through the doorway, began to clear a path to the nearest corner, piled high with bags of blankets and old clothes. She was nearly done when Edward's muffled voice sounded from somewhere above. "Bella? Is the door open?" She called back that it was.

Momentarily, his silhouette appeared in the doorway. She fought the urge to watch him climb down the stairs, and turned to push another box out of the way. His steps sounded slow and heavy, and the wooden railing creaked a little under his weight. He was almost to the ground when his stride faltered. She looked up just as he stumbled forward, his hand sliding off the railing. His body hit the cement with a sharp thud, and Bella's breath caught in her throat. For an instant, she was sure that he had broken something, an elbow or a hip. Then she remembered the nail that wouldn't pierce his skin, and how he'd jumped onto the roof of her house without so much as a running start, and was completely dumbfounded.

Edward wasn't getting up. He had rolled onto his stomach, and was began to drag himself out of the light that filtered down the stairs. Pushing past an old chest of drawers, she dropped to the floor next to him.

"Are you okay?" Her voice sounded shrill to her ears. Edward didn't look up, but reached for her arm. His grip was too weak, his skin too warm.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her earlier anger forgotten.

He whispered something.

"What?"

"Close the door …"

She jumped to her feet and rushed up the stairs to pull the door shut. The seal around the door frame was tight, designed to keep out insects and moisture, and as the lock clicked shut, the room descended into complete darkness. She heard clothes rustle against the floor below, the sound accompanied by uneven, shallow breathing.

Bella swallowed. She was afraid again, but _for, _not of him this time. "There are some bags of clothes in the corner. If you need to lie down." He made a noise in acknowledgement, and there were more sounds of movement. She wanted to go down to help him, but the darkness was complete and disorienting. She didn't trust herself not to trip down the stairs; that wouldn't do anybody any good. So she made her way down slowly, sliding her foot to the edge of each step before stepping down. Just as she reached the ground, she heard the crinkle of plastic and a heavy sigh come from the corner.

"Edward?"

"Yes?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Can I turn on the lamp?"

"Yes."

Her hand swung twice through the empty air before finding the string that served as a light switch. It clicked softly when she pulled, sending the lamp rocking back and forth like a glowing pendulum. As the arc of light glided over Edward's crumpled form, he turned his face away, head pressed awkwardly against the wall. He lay in the middle of the pile of black plastic bags, arms wrapped tightly around his chest.

She took several slow steps forward and cautiously knelt next to him. His eyes remained closed, and she wondered if he'd passed out. But then he shifted to the side, whether to make more room or to move away from her, she wasn't sure. So many questions bounced off her tongue, but she didn't even know where to start.

As if on cue, Edward's mouth parted to draw a labored breath. His eyes fluttered open and swung over to meet hers. His pupils had shrunk to tiny, black dots surrounded by rings of malachite green.

"I'm sorry," he whispered slowly. "I – This must seem … odd."

Bella bit back a nervous laugh – 'odd' was the least of it. "It's the sun, isn't it? It doesn't just bother your eyes."

Edward looked away. "No."

"It hurts you."

He ran an unsteady hand over his mouth. When he lowered it to his chest, she could see that his entire arm was shaking. "It can make me very ill."

Bella peered back at the basement door. "But it's barely dawn out there."

"It is enough."

She nodded, still frowning, still feeling far more ignorant than she wanted to be. "What does 'ill' mean?"

His brow creased in confusion. "Uh – it means I'm sick, unwell..."

"I know what the word means." It was difficult not to snap at him. "How does the sun make you sick?"

"Oh." He shifted again, turning onto his side and hugging his knees into his chest. His gaze drifted to some boxes stacked against the wall. "Just … sick. Cold. Aching. Weary." His eyes slid shut for a moment, then blinked open. "It becomes difficult to think. To move."

His hair had fallen over his eyes, and suddenly, her fingers itched to brush it back. She frowned at the impulse, reminding herself that he had lied to her, and not just once. Still, mustering up the indignation wasn't as easy as it should have been. Her gaze traveled the length of his body. "That's why you fell."

He nodded, his chin tracing an arc on the plastic. A fine sheet of sweat had broken out over his face, making his cheekbones gleam in the light.

"Do you get sick often?"

"No. I was caught off guard here. At home, I am better prepared."

She frowned. "Better prepared?"

"My bedroom has no windows, and the ones in the library are fully veiled. Thus, the sunrise is not usually so … dramatic." He must have sensed her confusion, adding, "What I mean is, I can avoid any contact with sunlight."

"Any contact," she repeated, feeling like a parrot. "So you stay inside all day?"

"Yes. Every day."

"Wow. That sucks."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a brief smile as he glanced at her. "Sometimes." The smile fell away. "But it is the status quo. I have learned to accept it."

"Yeah, but still, to never – " she began, but broke off as Edward's eyes tightened. Instead she asked, "What would've happened if I didn't have a basement?"

He twisted his neck to face her, and now she didn't resist, reaching forward to sweep aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. He froze at her touch, the rise of his ribs stalling in mid-breath, and his eyes followed her hand as she drew it back. "I would have asked for a closet. Many blankets." His gaze traveled up her arm before settling on her face. "I wouldn't have died, or spontaneously combusted, or whatever else you might imagine. But it would have been a wretched fourteen and a quarter hours."

The sweat from his brow had made her fingertips slippery. She rubbed them together, then frowned and curled her hand into a loose fist. "Why did you lie to me the other night? I asked you about the sun, and you said it didn't bother you."

He was silent for a moment. "I did not trust you."

"Even now, just now? When you told me you just want some place dark for your eyes? Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?"

He mirrored her frown, turning his face back to the boxes. "If you are angry that I misled you, it was necessary. You cannot not fault me for being guarded about my weaknesses."

She fought the urge to snort. "That's totally unfair. You know my weaknesses."

"Society is not so eager to have your head on a platter." At that moment he shivered, teeth clicking against each other, and tightened his arms around himself.

She lay a hand on his shoulder. "You're burning up."

He tried to shrug her off. "Fever is common with exposure. It will pass."

She didn't move her hand. "You'll just get worse if you stay here."

"Unlikely."

"Goddamn it," she muttered, and turned away to rummage through a nearby pile of bags. By the time she found what she was looking for, she was squinting to shield her eyes from the thick layer of dust rising into the air.

Edward arched an eyebrow at the bundle in her arms. "My old sleeping bag," she said. "At least it'll keep you warm."

His expression softened, and he didn't protest as she unrolled it, didn't even comment on the musty smell coming from the faded cotton. But he didn't move to take it from her either. She didn't know if he was just being stubborn, or if, despite looking and sounding better by the minute, that much movement was still too difficult for him. Hesitating briefly, she spread the unzipped bag in her arms like a blanket and lowered it over his legs and waist. He tugged a corner toward his chest. "Thank you."

She took a step back. "You're wel –" she began but finished with a yawn. Suddenly, she felt very, very tired.

Edward eyed her with something resembling resignation. "You need to sleep."

"Yeah. I guess – " She glanced back at the door. "You'll be okay here?"

He nodded slowly.

"There are other blankets in that bag, if you're still cold. Uh..." This was the part where she would turn around and go upstairs. "If you need any thing else... bang on the wall or something."

Another nod. His half-hooded eyes drifted from her face. He hadn't stopped shivering; the cloth covering his chest trembled lightly.

"Good night," she heard herself whisper.

"Stay." The word was little more than a ghost; if not for the tiny movement of his lips, she might have thought she imagined it.

Her feet felt rooted to the floor – too heavy to step away, much less climb up the stairs, but that didn't matter. She wouldn't stay because she was too tired to leave. She wouldn't sleep in the basement because her bed upstairs was surrounded by her dead sister's possessions. She wouldn't lay down next to Edward because she owed him something.

Sinking down to the makeshift mattress, she peeled back a corner of the sleeping bag. Edward's eyes didn't leave her face as she lowered herself onto the plastic. Slowly, she slid an arm around his shaking chest and pulled him closer. His hair smelled like rain and wet earth.

She would stay because he had asked, and because she wanted to.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: ...and, we're back! Officially off hiatus, though I make no promises about when the next update is coming. I will repeat my assurance of a few chapters ago, however: this story will not be abandoned. Though it will surely take longer than any of us would like, it will have an end. I won't abandon our favorite couple, or you, dear reader.

Also, I've reposted a slightly different version of the previous chapter, so if you've forgotten what's going on, now would be a good time for a re-read :)

As always, thanks to my betas, TZ and AD.

Most importantly, thanks to you for still reading.

There was a tapping. Somewhere above. A hollow, clanging sound that seemed to land directly in his ear one moment and a thousand feet away the next. Then it would cease, and he wouldn't know if it was the source of the sound that had faltered, or his own hearing.

Tap tap – silence. Tap – silence. Tap tap tap – silence.

Other noises, too. From the street. Something rumbling and revving. The screech of metal on metal. A wailing... maybe a siren.

Tap tap – silence.

So many noises. Too many. Flickering in and out like broken television.

Tap tap tap – silence. Tap – silence.

The girl who slept next to him was snoring. The sound was calm and steady, starting somewhere in her chest and drifting out from between her lips like smoke, like a fire.

He wanted a cigarette.

She was covered with something dark and wrinkled, something that rose and fell in time with her breath. It covered him too, and it was warm. She was warm. The air was cold.

Tap – silence. Tap tap tap – silence.

Silence.

The light in the basement began to flicker. Suddenly, he was aware of how heavy his eyelids were. Viscous, like cement. And the tapping... what happened to the tapping? Darkness smothered him; he heard nothing, saw nothing.

Bella. Where was –

She was gone.

No.

"Edward."

No.

"Edward, let go."

She was gone. He was alone. He was always alone.

"It's okay, let go."

His hands hurt. Fingers, joints, muscles, everything hurt.

"Edward!"

He blinked. Light flooded his eyes...when had he closed them?

Bella's face swam in front of him, her eyebrows drawn together like blades of grass that had buckled under the weight of something big and careless.

"Hey. It's okay." Her lips trembled as she spoke. "Edward, it's okay. Let go." Something tugged on his arm, and he felt the bones in his shoulder grind against each other like rocks. As the sensation traveled down his arm, he realized that his hand was gripping something. Something soft.

He blinked again, his lungs stuttering to draw breath. Fingers – his fingers – loosened from the flesh of Bella's arm. Blood rushed back into each digit with a roar, and it _hurt_. He let his hand fall to the blanket. The outline of Bella's body blurred and shifted, and he was dizzy.

"Hey." A firm, cool hand slid under his chin. "Are you okay?"

He squeezed his eyelids together. The grip on his chin tightened and gave a little shake. He tried to pull away.

"Edward, look at me." The words landed sharply in his ears, and now he knew he had to answer. Bella's eyes bored into his face. "Are you okay?"

His tongue scraped the roof of his mouth. "Yeah."

She sighed, letting go of his chin, and he understood that she was relieved, that she had been worried for him. His eyes landed on her shoulder, where, just below the curve of muscle, the imprints of his fingers were beginning to turn red.

"Did I – Did I hurt you?" The words were difficult to form.

She shook her head. "No."

The tapping had returned, and now he knew exactly what it was – water, dripping onto a pipe in the wall one floor above.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, lifting his hand to try and cover the marks.

She inhaled sharply, like a hiccup. "I'm fine. What happened?"

"I – I don't know." _Something_ had happened to him, but his memory was already fading into an uncomfortable haze. He fumbled for an explanation. "I remember... You pulled the blanket over us both before you fell asleep. I wanted to turn out the light. It was bothering you as you slept, you kept trying to cover your eyes. But moving was still... difficult. So I waited, and … that is all I can really recall."

Bella's gaze was inscrutable as she searched his face for something he was afraid she would not find. "You scared me."

He drew his hand from her shoulder, suddenly certain that he would only make the bruises there worse. "Bella, I–"

"You're okay now?"

"I – yes. I think so."

She nodded faintly. "Okay."

In the silence that followed, she watched him with that same enigmatic expression; he stared back, trying in vain to guess what she was thinking. He wanted to touch her again, but couldn't will his hands to move. A mild panic welled up in his chest – why wasn't she saying anything? Was there something he supposed to do?

Just then, she moved, lifting a hand to his forehead. Her cool, thin fingers wove themselves into his hair, and she began to rake through it. The touch sent faint shivers down his scalp, and he sighed despite himself. Her eyes drifted along his hairline as she pressed her lips into a tiny, uncertain frown. "I like your hair," she whispered.

"Thank you," was the only reply he could manage. Tilting his head into her palm, he fought the urge to close his eyes, not wanting to lose sight of her again. His fingers found her other hand and slid over the warm skin of her palm. On the inside of her wrist, he ran his thumb over the lines of scars clustered there. She was nearly as pale as he was. Thin blue veins ran along her wrist and into the heel of her palm like branching rivers. Her pulse drummed against his fingers.

"You'll have to leave soon," he said quietly. "Go back upstairs."

"Why?"

"I – The sun. It makes me ill, then it makes me very– " he broke off, swallowing, " – hungry."

"Oh." The fingers in his hair grew still.

"I'm sorry, I wish it wasn't – I wish I could–"

She pressed two fingers firmly against his lips and shook her head. "Stop. I get it. It's okay."

Something in his chest snapped loose, and he inhaled so deeply that he thought his lungs would burst. "Go somewhere with me," he blurted out.

Bella pulled her hand back. "What?"

Brows furrowed, he looked anywhere but her face. "Uh... what I mean is – would you like to do something? With me?"

"Oh. You mean, go out."

"Yes. Unless you prefer to stay in. We could also stay in, I have movies–"

Her fingers tangled themselves into his hair once more. "We don't have to stay in."

He looked up. The hesitant smile curling on the corner of her lips mirrored his own.

"Special Agent Britt." Mark Britt slid his badge across the yellowed veneer of the desk that stood at the entrance to the police station. The officer sitting on the other side picked up the small leather sleeve and studied it over his glasses. One gray eyebrow dipped as the man peered closely at Mark's name, then his ID number, and finally his picture. Then he looked back at Mark, nodded solemnly, and set the badge down between them. Mark slipped it back into his pocket.

"Pardon the scrutiny, Agent Britt," said the officer. "We don't get too many of you federal types around here. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't make damn sure you are who you say you are."

Mark gave a curt nod.

"So what brings you to the fair village of Channahon, Illinois?" The cop – Officer Hastings, according to the thin metallic tag pinned to his uniform – folded his hands together and leaned forward in his chair.

"Your department has jurisdiction over the wetlands and the river treatment facilities upstream." It was a statement rather than a question.

Hastings began to nod. "The wetlands outside of town? Yeah, we're in charge of those. The state park down the road, too, but not the Goose Lake area. You'd have to go up to Morris if you wanted –"

"I'm not interested in the lake. Just the river."

Hastings refolded his hands and cocked his head. "All right. And what is it about our stretch of the Des Plaines that the Federal Bureau of Investigation finds so interesting?"

Mark bit back the urge to scowl. The last thing he needed was lip from an aging cop in a double wide trailer for a police station. "The bodies," he said stiffly. "I'm here about the bodies you've pulled out of that river."

All traces of Midwestern congeniality vanished from the man's round, wrinkled face. "What bodies?" he asked, but the recognition that flashed through his eyes told them both the question was a farce.

"I need information on any John or Jane Does your department picked up recently."

Hastings pulled his glasses off with a jerk and let them tumble onto a pile of paperwork. "Agent, I think you're in the wrong town after all. We don't – "

Mark brought both palms down on the table in front of him. "Cut the crap, Officer. For years, your department has had the worst clearance rate of any town its size in the entire state. Now you're gonna tell me all those murders are local, and you have an ID on every single victim? Or are you trying to obstruct a federal investigation for the hell of it?"

The corners of Hastings' mouth drifted into a deep, resigned frown. He sighed and glanced up at Mark through thick eyebrows. "I'm telling you the truth. You're in the wrong town. Those aren't our bodies anymore."

"What do you mean, they're not–"

"Just what I said, Agent. The lieutenant and the mayor had to threaten to go to the press twice before Chicago finally agreed, but they're takin' 'em back next month."

Mark leaned away from the desk and barely kept himself from nodding in triumph. Bullseye. Just as he'd guessed, the bodies were coming out of Chicago. Channahon, Illinois was fifty miles from Michigan Avenue and less than twenty from where the Chicago River fed into the Des Plaines. When he'd poured over the local crime statistics for the suburbs and townships in the region, the murder reports for this one stuck out like a sore thumb. A population of sixty four hundred with less than a dozen armed robberies and assaults per year, but a body count to rival a city ten times its size. The department had just fifteen officers on staff and barely enough resources to mount more than two homicide investigations a year. If somebody in Chicago was looking for a way to get rid of bodies, dumping them in the river and letting them float down to a town like Channahon was one of the brighter ideas they could have had.

But he never would have expected Chicago's commissioner to acknowledge it. "The city's opening investigations?"

Hastings rocked back in his chair. "Ha! Cook County take on twenty-three unidentified murders with the elections just around the corner? Yeah, and I'm Batman. They're taking the bodies, Agent. Getting them out of our morgue to keep us from bitchin' too loud. But no one's asked for any of the paperwork or forensics we've managed pull together, so I'll give you two guesses on how long they're gonna bother keepin' 'em around before firing up the incinerator."

Mark shook his head and scoffed. Bullshit like this was exactly why he'd never joined the force. Oh, he'd considered it now and then, but even with the less-than-stellar progress of his career at the Bureau, he was glad that he never became a cop, never had to deal with the bullshit that came with being a puppet of the local government. At least at the Bureau, there was only one guy on top of the ladder.

He looked around the station. A handful of desks lined the walls of the long, narrow room. A lamp was lit at the last one where a female officer sat in front of a stack of files. Though her pen still hovered in the air, she had turned her attention to the front of the station, eyes fixed squarely on him. In the kitchen behind her, a half-empty coffee pot sat steaming in the coffee maker. Otherwise, the place was empty.

He turned back to Hastings. "Well, yours or not, I'd like to have a look at any bodies that your people pulled out of the river in the last eighteen months."

"As you please, Agent. It'll take me a little while to round up the files, though, and I can't let you in the morgue 'till the examiner comes in a few hours from now. You wanna come back in the morning?"

"No. I'll wait."

Hastings peered at the clock on the wall, where the little hand was inching just past midnight, and fixed Mark with another long look. "All right. Suit yourself." He pushed his chair back and headed down the row of desks to the back of the building. When he passed the other officer, he leaned over and muttered something. She shook her head and went back to her paperwork.

Mark sighed, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and lowered himself into a plastic chair next to the door. He was tired. The drive here from his home in northern Virginia had taken all day, and he had to be back at his desk in less than 36 hours. He'd told his wife that he was collecting evidence out of state, but the truth was, nobody from the department knew he was here. He wasn't even going to claim the gas expense. The AD had demanded a body, "bitten and drained," but she'd also made it perfectly clear that initiative like this wasn't going to be welcomed while he was on the clock. Well, never mind that. He would burn as many weekends as necessary; he was more certain than ever that Angela Carter had set him on the right path. Once he led the investigation that would capture the Bureau's first vampire, he'd have to thank her for it.

"Agent Britt?" Officer Hastings' deep, cigarette-scratched voice cut into his thoughts. "The boys at the treatment station pulled a few bones out of their turbines a few months back. You wanna read about those too?"

"Yeah," he nodded. "I want to read about everything."

Pat Taylor and James Pelzer's apartment was on the seventh floor of a brick building that stood adjacent to a YMCA and two blocks away from one of the area's biggest hospitals. A convenience store and a pawn shop occupied the retail space on the first floor, and once, in the alleyway between this building and the Y, Edward had killed a prostitute.

He didn't remembered the incident on his first trip here, but now, as he circled the building looking for the most efficient route into Taylor and Pelzer's living room, it came back to him in a flash, and he lifted his head in the direction of the lake where he had gone to dispose of the body.

At the time, he was only vaguely aware of what the woman was expecting, of what a normal human male would have done in his place. Now, as the memory resurfaced, an unexpected thought arose with it: Could the encounter have played out differently if he wasn't out looking for a meal? If instead he had even a shred of interest in the parts of her body he wasn't intending to bite?

He remembered how the prostitute's hair swept across her cleavage; her thick legs in tall, black boots that gleamed in the streetlight; red fingernails that reached for his arm in encouragement. As he'd led her around the corner, she even slid a hand into the back pocket of his pants. He had jerked back immediately, swatting her away as one would a wasp. He had been disgusted. The contact felt unnatural, and it set his teeth on edge. Back then, it was the same with any human – he hadn't wanted any of them to touch him. So unlike now...

Abruptly, he pushed those thoughts aside. His mind was circling dangerous notions, notions he had no idea what to do with. He turned his attention to the matter at hand.

Nineteen days ago, on his previous visit to the apartment, he had learned that the fire escape would creak under his weight. He avoided it this time, bending down to untie his shoes instead. Wedging toes and fingers into the crevices dotting the wall, he began to scale the back of the building. On the seventh floor, he found Taylor and Pelzer's windows wide open, as he'd expected. Central air conditioning was not common in old buildings like this one.

Pulling himself up onto the window ledge that looked into the living room, he balanced there while working the wire screen free of its thin, aluminum frame. It came out with a pop, and he reached into the darkened room to set it on the floor before slipping inside.

The apartment was unoccupied, as he knew it would be. Thirty two minutes earlier, Pat Taylor had ordered a third pitcher of beer for himself and two others at the bar he patronized regularly, and since he was not due at work until noon the following day, he was not likely to return home for at least another hour. Not that Edward would need that long.

James Pelzer's bedroom was filthy – soiled carpeting, clothes strewn about the floor, a half-filled glass of something opaque collecting dust on the nightstand. Momentarily regretting his lack of shoes, Edward made his way over to the dresser in the corner, the top surface of which was littered with piles of the man's mail. He shuffled through it quickly, periodically tossing an envelope with a particular return address into a separate stack. He did the same with the bills and bank statements he found on the nightstand and on top of the toilet in the adjacent bathroom. Sitting down on the corner of the bed, he began to go through the selected papers more slowly, copying various account numbers into a small notebook he had brought with him.

These, in addition to a passport and social security number, would round out the data he intended to follow. From James Pelzer's email, he had discovered that the man went to Mexico on a one-way ticket. The automatic reply on the account informed all senders that Pelzer would have limited opportunity to return messages during the next few weeks. From this, Edward supposed two things: One, that Pelzer intended to remain in Mexico until his father died, and two, that wherever he was staying did not provide reliable Internet access, so he was not likely to purchase his return ticket online. In the absence of telephone communication to listen in on and email to intercept, the next best method for discovering when Pelzer would return to the country was to track his money. Although Edward did not have the skills himself, there were several individuals who, given an account number and a hefty fee, could provide him with a daily list of any transactions conducted with the credit or debit card in question. Wherever he was, Pelzer would have to come back eventually, and he would need cash to do it. Should he make a withdrawal, book a plane ticket, or even buy a stick of gum at an airport, Edward would know about it.

He had replaced most of the documents when his ears registered the whine of old elevator cables and the dull booming of men's voices somewhere below. Tossing the remaining envelopes onto the dresser, he headed back to the living room. The elevator opened, and footsteps stopped at the door just as he reached the window.

Keys clanged against a lock. "Come on man, just gotta sleep it off," said a male voice Edward didn't recognize. Sliding through the window frame, he snapped the wire screen back into place just as lights came on inside the apartment. Once outside, he allowed himself a flash of irritation. What was Pat Taylor doing home now?

The front door slammed shut. "Fuck, man. I gotta puke." Taylor's groan was accompanied by heavy, uneven footsteps.

"Again? Shit. At least you made it to the john this time."

Out on the ledge, Edward shook his head in disdain. He simply couldn't understand the appeal of alcohol, and it vexed him that the men who consumed it became so unpredictable. Well, even if the idiot stumbled home well before his due, at least Edward had gotten the information he had come for. Turning his attention to the wall below, he began to trace a pattern of crevices that would take him back down to the street. Before he could reach for the first one, however, an unmistakable lightness in his back pocket made him freeze. The notebook.

He fumbled through each pocket of his slacks, but they were all empty. Scanning the ground below, his eyes could make out each individual crack in the pavement, but he saw no trace of the small rectangle of papers that should have never left his person. And there was only one place it could be.

Letting out a sharp breath, he pulled himself closer to the window.

Inside the apartment, the man Taylor had come with stood with his back to the window, shaking his head at the bathroom door. Taylor himself could be heard heaving just on the other side. And there, on the gray carpet in front of James Pelzer's bedroom, lay Edward's notebook; beige, thin, barely bigger than a wallet, and less than ten feet out of reach.

He gritted his teeth at his stupidity. Should the notebook be discovered, there was no information inside that would lead directly back to him, and certainly nothing to identify his clients or targets. Even the numbers he had just written were arranged in a pattern that would take an amateur cryptographer several hours to decipher. But it did have his handwriting, his fingerprints, and maybe even traces of his saliva, none of which he was eager to share with law enforcement.

Momentarily, Pat Taylor stumbled out of the bathroom, wiping his mouth with a clumsy sweep of one arm. The sour scent of stomach acid mixed with alcohol assailed Edward's nose, and he leaned away from the window. At this point, his options were limited to exactly one – wait until the drunkard fell asleep, then go recover his property. Should either of the men inside find the notebook first, he could only hope for an opportunity to replace it with a decoy before they could decide what to do with it.

_You fool, _he thought to himself, y_ou_ c_areless fool._

"Where the fuck is Sarah?" Pat Taylor slurred from inside.

"Who?"

"Sarah, man, Sarah...she was askin' for it all night."

The other man snorted. "What the fuck are you talking about? If you mean that blonde who let you buy her a beer, she left before you even started puking."

"Fuck, man. I bought that bitch a beer. I bought her a fuckin' beer."

"Yeah, yeah. I gotta go."

"Fuck you, Jay. I bought her a fuckin' beer!"

"Right. Later, Pattie. Go sleep it off."

The front door slammed shut, and a few minutes later, the man who had brought Pat Taylor home walked out into the street below and disappeared around a corner. Inside the apartment, Taylor had pulled something out of his freezer, and was trying to operate the microwave. He kept pushing buttons, the wrong ones apparently. The machine beeped in protest, and after a minute of this, Edward found himself fighting the urge to climb inside and shove the frozen package of food down the man's throat.

Abruptly, the noise ceased. Sneaking a glance inside, Edward caught sight of Taylor stumbling toward the couch, his would-be dinner still sitting on the kitchen counter. The man dropped onto his back among the worn, blue cushions. Scarcely moving a muscle, Edward held his place for the next twenty minutes, listening intently as Pat Taylor's breath slowed and deepened. Finally, when loud, uneven snores began to rumble through the apartment, he reached once more for the screen hanging across the window.

Pat Taylor didn't even twitch as Edward slipped back over the windowsill. Three silent steps, and the notebook was back in his pocket, the front one this time, tucked as deeply as it would go. He turned back to the window, but even as his foot slid along the carpet, something made him pause. Slowly, he turned on his heel until he faced the prone figure on the couch.

Taylor's body reeked of stomach acid and stale alcohol. Soiled black hair was plastered against his forehead; his mouth was gaping open, a line of saliva trickling onto the cushion below.

Edward took one step forward, then another, until his hands hovered less than three inches from the sleeping man's throat. He heard Bella's flat, quiet voice in his head. _She was raped and killed. She died at their apartment. _

Anger surged through him, stronger than any he had ever felt before. His hands began to shake. He curled them into fists.

"I will kill you," he whispered to the sleeping man, "and you will know why."

End notes:

Well, hope that was worth the wait!

Many of the future chapters will come with multiple scenes like this one. Would you prefer the scenes to be their own (much shorter) updates, or should I stick to bundling them together into chapters that take longer to publish?

Thanks again for sticking with me, guys! You make me want to go and write, even when glee is on...


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Another season, another chapter. Thanks as always to my beta's AerosolDoc and Twilightzoner, and to everyone who's been reading and enjoying. Hope it was worth the wait!

It rained during the concert, a thunderstorm that shook the stained-glass windows of the small church, for a moment drowning out the music all together. At the burst of a particularly loud thunderclap, Bella saw Edward flinch; she was then surprised that, at the start of intermission, he motioned toward the tall windows in the back of the building. While the rest of the audience mingled at the refreshment booth, the they stood side by side and peered out at the rain. Through the thick glass, the night had become a black, endless river.

"I wonder if this is what one sees through the porthole of a ship," Edward said.

Bella looked at him. "I don't know. Have you ever been on a ship?"

He met her gaze briefly. "Once, for a few hours. Dinner cruises on the lake were very popular some decades ago. I suppose they still are."

Something about the way he pronounced the word 'dinner' gave Bella pause, but before she could say anything, the tuning of a violin marked the end of intermission. They returned to their seats in silence.

Music swelled around them, and for a while, Bella labored to give the musicians on stage her full attention. But even as she forced her gaze not to wander, she could not help but be aware of Edward sitting next to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that he sat very still, hands in his lap, fingers folded. He did not fidget, did not shift or sigh, to the point that she wondered if he was aware of his surroundings. Yet when she did glance at him, his expression left no doubt of how deeply he was engaged with the music. The crease in his brow would deepen as the tension in the melody grew, the corners of his mouth twitched with each crescendo, and his eyes never left the stage. Bella had never particularly liked classical music, never had the patience to appreciate it; now, watching Edward's audience, she began to feel that she had been missing something all along.

When the final notes of a violin solo died away, Edward leaned back in his chair and exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath. Then he turned to her and smiled.

On their way out of the church, he held the door for her and the group of people that exited after them. Again, she found herself watching him, studying his profile as intently as he had studied the musicians on stage. The set of his shoulders, the shape of his hands, the contrast of his dark hair and pale complexion – this was not the first time she had thought of him as handsome, but before, it had been a fleeting thought, pushed away as quickly as it came. Now, it was so obvious, so striking, that she had to pull her eyes away or risk being caught staring. When he finally came to stand beside her, she had the sudden urge to touch some part of him, remembering in a flash what it had felt like to fall asleep with his fingers curled around her arm. Instead, she pushed one hand into her pocket, and with the other began to flick rain water off the leaves of a nearby bush.

"I am glad the rain has stopped," Edward said, looking up. "I did not bring an umbrella."

"Yeah. Me neither."

People were still exiting the church. A group of older, better dressed concert-goers filed in between them, and she stepped into the grass to let them pass. From across the sidewalk, Edward offered a faint smile. "Would you like to walk for a bit? There is a park by the lake about three quarters of a mile from here."

She nodded. "Sure."

They headed down a street filled with restaurants and store fronts, walking side by side and in silence. Once, his hand brushed against hers, and something in her stomach twitched. Immediately, she had a vision of how they might look to a passerby: a couple, a perfectly normal human couple, walking down the street and holding hands. It seemed impossible that from the outside things could appear so simple, so easily defined. Still, as his fingers slipped past hers, and he made no attempt to take her hand, she felt an acute sense of disappointment.

Half-way down the next block, Edward finally spoke. "Did you enjoy the performance?"

"I did, actually. I didn't think I would, but it was pretty good."

"You didn't think you would?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Classical music isn't really my thing."

"Oh." Disappointment was written so plainly on his face that she almost wished she'd lied. "Why didn't you say so? Why didn't you tell me? We could have done something you are more partial to."

"It's not a big deal. It was better than I expected."

He didn't seem appeased. "I should have asked first. I just assumed… Vivaldi is one of my favorites, so I thought – "

"It's okay," she interrupted. "I'm glad we went."

Edward didn't reply.

They turned east onto a street lined with brick townhouses and broad, leafy trees. The air seemed to be thickening with humidity. Bella could feel her hair beginning to stick to the back of her neck.

"What is happening with your roof?"

The question caught her off-guard. "Uh – the roofers came out on Monday. They put up some more tarps. Apparently, they can't start the repairs for least a week after it stops raining, the wood needs to dry. Which isn't great," she added, "but I'm still tracking down my mother for the money anyway."

"Where is she?"

"Somewhere between Mumbai and New Delhi."

"Ah. She is traveling."

"Yeah. For a while." The words didn't come out sounding as bitter as they tasted.

"Are the repairs expensive?"

She grimaced. "Almost fifteen grand. Plus there's all the drywall that needs to be replaced upstairs, and some of the flooring. It's ridiculous."

"I could give you the money." Edward spoke so quickly that she was sure she had misheard.

"What?"

"If you need the money, I could give it to you." He gave a sharp chuckle. "I have plenty, and I've run out of things to spend it on. You would be doing me a favor."

For a moment, she couldn't think of a reply. "Um..."

"Well, consider it."

"Okay," she said, and groped for another topic. "I decided to move out."

"You have? Why?"

"Well... I think – I should have done it a while ago. This whole thing with the roof… it's as good an excuse as any."

He didn't answer at first. Then, "I am glad."

"Glad?" It seemed an odd thing to say.

"Yes. Living there as you do does not seem … helpful."

She let out a laugh. "No, it's not. But –" She ran a hand through her hair, fingers getting caught in a tangle. "I grew up in that house, you know? With my whole family, with Alice... It always felt wrong to leave, even before she died."

"Hm." Edward's expression was difficult to interpret. After a pause, he said, "I have never left Chicago. I used to think I acted out of convenience, but now, looking back on it… This was the last place where I lived as a human. Even before I remembered anything about that life, I believe some part of me clung to it. So –" his lips had gathered into solemn pucker "– I think I understand."

Bella nodded, as if the comparison were perfectly reasonable, but she felt like a bobble-head doll stuck on someone's dashboard. He presented these facts about himself so casually, but they were anything but. She felt she ought to reply, say something appreciative or insightful, but her mind was stuck on the sheer length of his life and how different it had been from hers.

"Where will you move to?" Edward asked, breaking the silence. There was a lightness to his tone that seemed deliberate.

"I'm not sure," she said. "Rent is cheaper up north, but it's farther from work. Jake lives in Lincoln Square, and it seems nice enough, but..."

"But?"

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then let it go. In Edward's expression, she saw nothing but curiosity. "I don't know. These last few days, I keep thinking moving out should be moving _toward_ something. Something else."

"Something else?" The same curiosity colored his voice, and all of a sudden, Bella wanted to put words to the restlessness she had begun to feel. It seemed important to be able to explain it to him.

"I can't fix bikes and pour drinks for the next twenty years. I don't want to. I'm twenty-six. I want to start doing something that matters, something I care about. Something–"

"Something with purpose?" Edward's tone had become more somber. When she looked up at his face, she saw that he understood perfectly.

"Yeah. Exactly," she said, then turned and looked around, for they had stopped walking, and she felt like changing the subject.

They had come to the end of a residential street. The last lot facing the lake was not a house but a small park, surrounded by an iron fence which rose several feet above their heads. A thick metal chain was coiled around the bars of the double gate. Beyond, a path wound between grass and clusters of young trees, ending in the rock-lined shore of Lake Michigan.

"Is this it? It looks locked." For no particular reason, Bella reached for the gate.

"It is." Edward's hand came up and covered hers just before she took hold of the metal bars. He brought a finger to his lips and motioned to the nearest house and its bright windows. "This is a private park," he said in a near-whisper.

She let him pull her hand away, too conscious of the fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"Wait just a moment," he said in the same soft tone. In the next instant, he was in the air, vaulting over the fence as if the concrete sidewalk had been his personal trampoline. Bella felt rather than heard the impact of his feel landing on the other side. When he turned back to the gate, she saw that he was smiling, as if he were pleased with himself while knowing that he shouldn't be. She just stared, awed at how he could make jumping over a ten foot fence look as simple as stepping off a curb. Then she wondered how he intended to unlock the gate and why it was necessary to do it from the other side.

When he reached for the hinges, she couldn't hold back a snort.

His hands stilled for a moment. "What?"

"No, nothing. Why bother with locks if you can take off the whole gate, right?"

He eyed her through the iron bars. By now she could recognize that look on his face – he was trying to decide if she was serious. "Relax. I'm just giving you a hard time," she whispered.

"Oh." For a moment, his expression didn't change. He slid a thick bolt out of the top hinge, the sound barely louder than the rustle of leaves. "This seemed the most elegant solution."

"You're breaking us into a park, and you're worried about elegance?"

He returned her teasing tone with another smile. "It is one way to pass the time. In any case, I don't intend for us to break anything." In his hands, the gate folded into itself like the cover of a giant iron book. Bella walked through, wondering how much the whole thing weighed, but didn't ask. A moment later, he'd reassembled the hinges, and they turned toward the lake. As they walked, Bella could almost feel the tension ebbing out of their silence.

Nearing the shore, she saw that it was not lined with rocks, but broken plates of cement. Their flat surfaces were piled against each other at odd angles, like a sidewalk torn apart by the roots of an invisible tree. Water splashed against the cement, tossing about the lights of the city on quick, tiny waves. Three miles to the south, the skyline of downtown Chicago rose up out of a thin fog, the buildings appearing to float on water.

"This is one of my favorite places," Edward said. "The land was once the grounds of an old house. Built before my time, in the 1800s. An opulent house. The property was condemned for decades before the city turned into a park. At one point, I could have bought it. I almost wish I had."

Bella stepped onto a wide slab of rock, closer to the water. "Why didn't you?"

"Well," Edward said behind her, "that was a long time ago."

She turned around. "What does that mean?"

"Ah..." he began. She frowned a little as he trailed off into nothing, and then he was frowning too, running a hand over his brow. "Bella, you must understand. For most of this life, I have not been who I am now."

"I don't understand," she said, careful to keep any sharpness out of her voice. "That's why I'm asking."

He nodded, now rubbing his chin, and walked past her to the very edge of the water. She watched the back of his head as he stood there, noting absently that the length of his hair was a bit uneven, as if whoever cut it had done so in the dark or in a hurry.

After a moment, Edward sank to a crouch, and peered over his shoulder. "Would you like to sit?"

"Okay." She stepped forward and lowered herself next to him. Pulling her sandals off, she let her legs dangle over the edge of the rock, only a foot or so above the water.

"You recall that I have been living as I do now for only ten years." It was not a question, but Bella nodded anyway. Though he spoke softly in both tone and volume, her stomach tightened at his words. She wished he wouldn't pause so often. "Well," he continued, as if sensing her trepidation, "I did not mean only that I acquired a new profession, or decided to expand my diet. Before the memories of my past life came back to me, I was a different person – no, a different _creature_ all together."

She could not help it. In the black water of the lake, all she could see was Edward in that alley, crouched over a woman, draining her body of its blood in long, greedy gulps.

As she drew a sharp breath, he shifted away from her. "Yes," he said. "Perhaps you do understand." Picking up a handful of tiny pebbles that littered the ground, he began to shake them in his fist. Bella looked up at the sound, her eyes finding their way up to his profile. In some ways, he looked nothing like the vampire she had seen that night.

"Okay," she said, as much to herself as to anyone. "You were different. You... didn't care who you killed. And now you do, so – "

"That isn't the only difference." The emotion in his voice surprised her. "This is what I am trying to explain. Before, my appearance was the only human thing about me. I did not speak unless it was necessary, I did not pick up a newspaper, I didn't even bother to keep track of the month or the year. I could sit in place for days, in this very park even, and be barely aware of time's passage. I lived in this city, I killed its people and stole its money, but if you'd asked me about its landmarks or its culture, or whether my last kill had been a man or a child, I would have barely understood what you were talking about. It wasn't simply that I didn't care whom I killed. I didn't care about _anything_." With that, he swung his fist forward, sending the gravel flying into the dark water. It broke the surface in a ring of tiny splashes.

Bella watched the small chaos of ripples disappear, until the water held no sign of Edward's sudden anger. "You make it sound like you weren't even a person."

"I wasn't. If consciousness is truly the thing which separates humans from other animals, I would have failed the test."

She stared at him. "I can't believe that. You're telling me that when I was in high school, you weren't even human? How is that possible? I mean, how could you have changed? You can't just snap your fingers and become a person. That can't be true."

"It is." He dropped his gaze, and when he spoke again, his tone had lost much of its sharpness. "I don't know, Bella. I don't understand it any more than you do. I wish that I did. But I am not lying to you."

"I'm not saying you are. I'm sorry, it's just – hard to imagine. You're so rational, all you seem to do is think. I just can't believe that person didn't exist before 1995."

He surprised her with a brief smile. "Well, it isn't quite like you imagine. Not such a sudden change. I didn't look around one day and begin reading philosophy and keeping journals. And it isn't that I didn't think before then, either. But they were very banal thoughts, about feeding, about concealing myself properly. I thought, but I didn't _examine_. That is the crucial difference."

She pursed her lips at him. "I don't think that's enough to count you out of being human. I know plenty of people who don't 'examine.' They still get birth certificates. Maybe you're just remembering it wrong. You said your memory isn't very good, maybe you weren't as–"

"No. I know what I was. I was a vampire. Only a vampire."

_Not like now._ She heard the words even though he did not say them. Suddenly she understood why he was arguing this point with such fervor. She did not want to contradict him.

She began to swing her legs back and forth, feeling a bit like a small child. "So... how long have you played the piano?" she asked after a moment.

He turned his head. "How did you know I play the piano?"

Again, his tone caught her off guard. "I heard you play. The second time I came to your apartment." She felt like she was confessing a crime. "I heard it from the stairs."

"Oh." A gust of wind had blown some hair into his face, concealing his expression.

"I liked it," she offered. "Tom Waits, right?"

He nodded, but didn't reply. She frowned, rubbing a smudge of dirt from her leg. Somewhere off-shore, the horn of a ship gave a long, low wail. The sound echoed off the rocks.

"Do you remember the song?"

She looked up, eyebrows drawn together.

"The song that I was playing?" He did not not meet her eyes.

Slowly, she shook her head. "No."

He did not speak for so long that she thought it was the end of the conversation. But then he sighed and began to recite:

"_Did you hear the news about Edward? _

_In the back of his head, he had another face. _

_Was it a woman's face, or a young girl? _

_They said to remove it would kill him, _

_so poor Edward was doomed_."

He grew silent. Bella said nothing.

"There was a man named Edward Mordrake who lived in England in the 19th century. He was born with a deformity, an extra face back here." He tapped the back of his skull, just above his neck. "He suffered from insomnia, claimed the face spoke to him at night. He called it his 'devil twin.' The state of medicine was such that doctors would not attempt to remove it. He hung himself when he was twenty-three."

There was something in his voice that Bella recognized – a rash, desolate kind of bitterness. She didn't like it. "Why are you telling me this?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. There is no reason. Except, sometimes – sometimes I think that I haven't changed at all. There are parts of me – certain impulses, certain physical sensations –" his hand rose into the air, grasping at nothing "– that later seem so odd, so foreign. In those moments, I don't know who I am at all, and it … it frightens me."

She reached for his hand, wrapping both of hers around it. She felt his eyes snap to her face; hers were glued to the water. "I'm sorry," she said. Their fingers, now intertwined, sank down to the stone. "For what it's worth, I'm not afraid of you."

"Not right now," he whispered, tugging lightly on her hands. She didn't resist, letting her body turn to face him.

"No. Not right now."

In the next instant, he had pulled her hands up to his chest, his face only inches away, and she could feel his breath on her cheek. The moment before he kissed her, some stupid part of her wondered if his mouth would taste like blood.

End Notes

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